Prior Arrangements
by PoisonMistress
Summary: John finally gets himself engaged, but unfortunately for him the Holmes brothers have other plans, and those involve him staying with Sherlock, and falling in love with him. Eventual John/Sherlock. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Well, thanks for clicking. I hope this fic is going to be worth your time. It will definitely end up being a slash story, so if you don't like that kind of thing, stop reading. Hope you enjoy the first chapter!**

**Disclaimer: Characters do't belong to me, I'm only borrowing them.**

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><p>John Watson walked along the street, slowing his steps as he got closer to 221B. If he was honest, he was dreading going back home now. He had no idea how Sherlock was going to react.<p>

Being the worlds only consulting detective, John thought that Sherlock would have deduced what was going on long ago. But he seemed strangely blind to everything concerning _her._

_Her_ being his fiancée, as of that morning when he'd proposed.

He'd been seeing Juliet for over a year, and everything thing seemed perfect. She was lovely. Sweet, kind, funny, smart by his standards. But his heart wasn't filled to the brim with joy at the idea of spending the rest of his life with her. Yes, he was happy. But there were a few little niggling thoughts. Each and every one of them involving Sherlock.

What would Sherlock do without his only friend? Who would get him to eat, and clean up his experiments, and defend his honour? Yes, he'd managed before. But Sherlock barely ever eluded to that time, and he always wore a look of extreme loneliness when he mentioned it. Like a man remembering a time spent on a deserted island.

He'd been totally alone. And now... He wouldn't be totally alone. Of course he'd still visit Sherlock. But he wouldn't have a constant companion any more. And John knew he wouldn't be able to spend his time solving crimes.

Juliet had been against it from the first, saying it was to dangerous. And anyway, he would have to spend time with his wife, not with Sherlock.

Sherlock had only met her once, about four months ago when they were getting serious. She'd insisted on going round to his place, saying she wanted to look round. She knew a little about Sherlock, but not a lot, he'd been careful not to talk continually about him. And it had been a complete disaster.

Sherlock had been conducting an experiment on some bones, which wasn't as bad as it could have been. They'd entered the flat, and he'd been sitting on the floor, crossed legged, wrapped in his dressing gown, looking almost ghost-like in the dim light.

He had been muttering to himself, something about oxygen if John remembered correctly. And then, when he switched the light on, Sherlock had looked up, pausing mid sentence as he surveyed first John, and then Juliet. He seemed to freeze when his eyes landed on her, every muscle oozing hostility.

Then his beautiful grey eyes had flicked to John.

"Who is _that_?" he'd demanded, drawing his lips into a sneer.

"Sherlock, this is Juliet, my girlfriend." he'd said carefully, glancing at the girl in question.

She looked a little taken aback, but smiled bravely all the same.

"Hello Sherlock. John talks about you a lot." she said, and John hoped he'd imagined the jealousy in her tone.

"John never talks about you." Sherlock had responded, ignoring John's sharp intake of breath.

Juliet glanced at him, though thankfully there was no reproach in her eyes. Sherlock looked between them, his brow furrowing for a second, before turning back to his bones.

"Tea, Juliet?" John asked, breaking the slightly uncomfortable silence.

"Oh, yes please. Is it okay if I sit down...?"

"Of course."

He'd hurried into the kitchen, and left the pair alone. Big mistake.

"Don't touch that." snapped Sherlock after barely five seconds.

"Sorry. What is it?" asked Juliet.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

"It's evidence for a case."

The case they were working on was tricky. John shouldn't have brought Juliet while he was working on it. But then, when Sherlock wasn't working on a case he was even worse. He'd brought the tea into the room, Sherlock tapping the bones together and frowning.

John smiled nervously at Juliet, and they sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Sherlock broke it by picking up the handful of the smaller bones, and sniffing them carefully.

"You're working on a case, are you?" asked Juliet, though she didn't sound interested.

"Yes." Sherlock said sharply.

"John said you were some kind of amateur detective."

Sherlock raised his head, and glared coldly at her.

"Consulting detective." he said.

Then he looked at John, eyes expressing hurt John couldn't really understand.

Then his friend dropped the pile of the bones, and crouched down, examining them all carefully.

"Hah." he said softly, picking up the largest and twirling it through his fingers.

Juliet had rolled her eyes at John, which made him feel something close to anger, but not quite. Sherlock's work was serious. And she was coming in here, without invitation of his flatmate, and patronising his work.

"I've got it, John." Sherlock had said, leaping to his feet, and grabbing his coat of the back of the sofa.

He twirled round and watched John expectantly.

"Coming?"

Well... Uh..." John had stuttered.

Sherlock's face fell, before becoming the customary mask.

"Very well. Don't let her mess anything up." he'd snapped, voice cold as ice, and as sharp as glass.

And then he'd gone.

The rest of the evening had been very uncomfortable. And he hadn't taken Juliet round since. And she hadn't asked to go.

Sherlock had also made no further allusions to her, never commenting when John came home from a long night at her place. Probably the one reason Juliet had lasted to the final point was that she didn't seem to mind so much when John was called away by Sherlock.

She pleaded with him to stay, and told him Sherlock wasn't worth it, a comment which always hardened his resolve. But the next day, she'd forgive him with a small, sad smile.

And now they were engaged. And John knew he should be happy, but something to do with Sherlock was dampening it. Juliet had always let Sherlock take prime place, but once he was married, he knew that wouldn't be the case. Juliet disliked him. Had even called him worthless a few times. She was jealous of him, which was of course ridiculous.

He stood for several moments on the steps of 221b, before unlocking the door, and slowly walking inside. The harmonious droning of Sherlock's violin could just be heard. It was such a familiar, heart breaking sound. John listened to it for a moment, before slowly climbing the stairs up.

Sherlock was standing by the window, playing a slow tune. He stopped when John entered the room, but not turning round to face him.

"Did you eat?" asked John.

He would prefer it if Sherlock deduced everything he needed to, instead of being forced to tell him.

"No." drawled Sherlock, finally turning to face him.

His eyes skimmed over every detail, and a slight frown clouded his features. Then he seemed to shake himself, and fell into the sofa, stretching out. John stood watching him for a moment, before sitting down, still watching his friend.

"Sherlock... I need to tell you something." he said uncomfortably.

Sherlock didn't remove his eyes from the ceiling, but a lazy wave of his hand told John to proceed.

"You remember Juliet."

And John swore he something flash in the detective's eyes.

"Boring, stupid women." he said, no difference in his tone.

"Well, boring and stupid to you. But I've asked her to marry me."

Sherlock tensed, slowly turning his mist grey eyes on John.

"And she accepted."

Sherlock didn't move for several seconds, then he jumped to his feet, striding past John.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, also getting to his feet and running over to the detective.

"I'm going out. Forgot about an important meeting..." Sherlock said, voice sharp.

"You're going in your dressing gown?"

Sherlock barely glanced at himself, before storming through the door and slamming it shut behind him, leaving John alone and in silence.

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><p>John made himself a cup of tea, and sat down. He hadn't really thought Sherlock would react quite so badly. Or maybe he had known, and just hoped he wouldn't. At any rate, it didn't look like his best friend would be returning for some time.<p>

John wasn't really sure what Sherlock's problem was either. He didn't like sharing, but John was only his friend. He would still be his friend. Nothing would change that. So there had to be something else going on in that funny brain.

When Sherlock returned, he'd tell him exactly what was going to happen.

But an hour later, when Sherlock hadn't yet returned from his 'meeting', John was worried that maybe Sherlock was upset about something even bigger. He was considering going out to find the six foot detective, when his phone bleeped.

_Car waiting for you. M_

John sighed quietly. He should have guessed this would be happening. But of course he hadn't. He slowly got up, shrugged on his coat, and went downstairs. The door of the black car mystically opened, and he climbed wearily in, slamming it shut with more force than necessary, and causing even Anthea to look up.

They drove to their destination in complete silence, only when they stopped did Anthea look up.

"We're here." she said, before plunging back to her phone.

John got out, and walked slowly up to the tall figure of Mycroft. When Sherlock had stormed out, he hadn't thought his day could get any worse.

"What do you want?" he snapped, glaring at the older brother.

Mycroft tipped his head and surveyed him.

"We should sit. This will be a delicate conversation."

John snorted, but sat anyway, Mycroft taking the seat opposite him.

"Help yourself." he said, gesturing at a plate of small cakes.

John eyed them suspiciously, before taking one, and picking thoughtfully at the icing as he surveyed Mycroft.

"I asked what you wanted." he said finally.

"Oh yes. Now, I'm sure you're aware that my dear brother left the flat at one o'clock this afternoon, in great distress." said Mycroft primly, as though reading a news report.

"And in his dressing gown." John added, suppressing a smirk.

Mycroft raised a single eyebrow.

"Yes. And I'm also sure you're aware that you are the cause for both these things."

"I did tell him he was only wearing a-"

"You know what I mean." Mycroft interrupted.

Johns sighed, setting his half eaten cake down.

"Sherlock doesn't rule my life. It's my choice. And I'm afraid he'll have to get over it." said John.

Mycroft twirled his umbrella, and shook his head.

"Unfortunately not, my dear doctor."

"What? You can't rule my life. It's my choice."

"Yes. It's your choice. But let me explain your choices." said Mycroft.

John glared at him, leaning back in his chair, and watching the Holmes brother closely.

"You have been with you brother for a long time now. Two years I believe. And, rather unfortunately, you have penetrated his armour. He has professed you to be his only friend. The one he really cares for. And this means you cannot be parted from him."

John opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft held up a hand.

"When I first met you, I knew you would either make my brother worse, or better. You have made him better. You're good for him. You protect him. Keep him on the straight and narrow. You saved him from himself. And I fear that now, to rip that all away would destroy him."

"But, I'm not going to abandon him. I'll still see him." protested John.

"Sherlock doesn't share."

"He'll be fine on his own! He can look after himself."

Mycroft frowned.

"I personally believe not. Since he met you, I am almost certain he hasn't used _it_. And I am equally certain he will if you leave."

"That's blackmail! You can't make me stay with him." snapped John angrily.

He couldn't believe Mycroft. Sherlock was completely right about him. How dare he try and control his life, and Sherlock's. He made his own choices. They both did.

But the other reason he was angry, was because every word Mycroft said was true. And in his heart, he knew it.

"But, I give you a choice John." said Mycroft placidly.

John narrowed his eyes and waited.

"You cut Miss Juliet out of your life, and stay with Sherlock. Or, you marry her, and several weeks later, an unfortunate accident occurs to her. A fatal accident." said Mycroft, as nonchalantly as if he were talking about the weather.

"W-what? You can't do that! It's my life. I won't have a bastard like you ruling it." snarled John, getting to his feet.

"Oh, but I gave you a choice. Stay with Sherlock, or be the cause of her death."

John curled his fists into balls as he looked the the older brother.

"You..."

"I am only doing what is best for Sherlock. He cares more about you than you know. And I believe you care more about him than you want to admit."

"He's my best friend. Nothing else."

"Indeed? You've noticed his blindness to what happens between you and Juliet. Because he's seeing what he doesn't want to see, so he ignores it and hopes it goes away. Do you want to see your friend return to drugs? The choice is yours, my good doctor. You have several days to decide." said Mycroft.

He rose elegantly, and strode away, leaving a speechless, angry, confused army doctor behind.

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><p><strong>There, I hope it was okay. The next chapter should be up very soon, and it'll be from Sherlock's POV. I'd love it if you spared the time to review! It would be nice to get some early encouragement.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay then! I've got the next chapter up, thanks to so many lovely reviews! I hope Sherlock lives up to your expectations.**

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><p>Sherlock walked quickly down the street, ignoring the stares of everybody who passed him. He couldn't care less what went on their pathetic, boring minds. Because John was leaving him.<p>

He clenched his teeth together, to stop something. Not tears, obviously.

He felt so... angry and abandoned. How could John leave him for some women? He'd known it would happen eventually. If he was honest, he'd known as soon as John had brought Juliet round. But he hadn't wanted to believe it.

And now he felt so foolish. He'd let John in, and in his own way, John had managed to hurt him. Not intentionally of course. John would never do that. But this women, she had. Sherlock curled his fists into balls.

He walked for another five minutes, before admitting that the cold, and the stares were getting rather dull. But he couldn't go back home yet. He had to compose himself. Rebuild that armour John had broken.

He had few places other than home to go, so he headed to the yard, speeding up his steps slightly as the cold began to get really bitter. He was glad his momentary fear and anger hadn't stopped him putting some shoes on. He managed to slip past the people milling around in the main section, and sneak to Lestrade's office.

Sherlock supposed, as he picked the officers lock, that Lestrade was the next closest thing to a friend he had. He slipped into the familiar room, shutting the door, and padding over to a comfy chair, which he curled himself down in, resting his head on the arm.

His frozen body began to thaw out a bit, which allowed his brain to get working. John had asked a women to marry him. That was bad, but perhaps steps could still be taken to get John back.

He certainly wasn't going to give in just like that. The women would not win. Not in a million years. John was_ his_ and anybody who didn't understand that needed to learn.

He cursed himself for not doing something four months ago, when it was clear John was serious. It wouldn't have taken much at all. An arm round John's waist, or a snide comment, and she would be gone. But he hadn't wanted to consider her a threat.

He knew never to make that mistake again. In fact, once this women was gone, he had to find a way to ensure John never got together with another one.

But, he had to concentrate on the present. Removing Juliet from John's life.

He could think of a hundred ways to get her to leave him. But John wouldn't give up without a struggle. And Sherlock didn't want to hurt him to much. Which was strange, and slightly worrying, as he normally didn't care about that kind of thing.

Hopefully he would have a good nine months to sort things out before the wedding. He would find a way.

The one thing he was a little more concerned about was why he was so desperate to keep John. It was a matter he would he to consider in great detail at a later date. John was his only friend. He cared for him. But more data would have to be collected on the subject.

And what did John see in the women, Juliet? Why did he want to leave in the first place? Why was he not an adequate companion? All these questions buzzed round Sherlock's head.

Well, firstly, he supposed Juliet called be called pretty, in a pedestrian, boring way. And apart from the fact she was stealing John, she seemed alright. But she was the very picture of the word dull. She'd been engaged before, but her fiancée had cheated on her, and she'd split it. She worked in a bookshop, and jobs didn't much more boring than that.

The second question, why did John want to leave? They were friends. John meant a terrifying amount to him. And he'd always thought John felt the same. Obviously not. The only other explanation was that this women had stolen John. Ensnared him in her evil web. Though she didn't look intelligent enough to plot so deviously.

And the last question... The trickiest, and the one that would require the most thought.

"What the bloody hell?" Lestrade demanded from the door.

Sherlock cursed himself for not hearing the door open, and turned his eyes languidly on Lestrade, who was flanked by Sally. She looked equal parts horrified, and like Christmas had come early.

"What are you doing freak?" she demanded, sniggering into her hand.

"I needed to think." Sherlock yawned, rolling himself into a sitting position and arranging his dressing gown over his knees.

"Sherlock! You can't just break into my office, in your dressing gown." Lestrade said angrily, though there no real venom in his voice.

He motioned for Sally to go, and watched the detective for a moment.

"What do you want?" he asked eventually.

"Nothing. I just got a bit cold. And I-I can't go home." said Sherlock, easily except for a stupid stutter.

"Row with John?" asked Lestrade, looking genuinely concerned.

"He did something which displeased me." said Sherlock coolly.

Lestrade nodded.

"Well. Stay here as long as you like." he said awkwardly.

"I will." said Sherlock, before curling back down again, and listening to the scratch of Lestrade's pen.

He should have known the silence wouldn't last long. First he was aware Lestrade had stopped writing, and then his gaze fixing itself on his head. He ignored him, hoping the inspector would loss interest. No such luck.

"Can you tell me what you fought about?" asked Lestrade gently.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Torn. Tell Lestrade and face embarrassment, or lie.

He decided on a mix.

"John wants to go." he stated, trying not to sound so insecure about the matter.

"That bad, was it?"

"No. That's... Why I came here." said Sherlock, resolving not to say another thing on this delicate subject.

"Oh... Well, I really hope you change his mind." said Lestrade.

Sherlock was glad he didn't have to rebuff the inspector with a rude comment about his wife. Sally entered, her expression clearly stating she'd been eavesdropping. Sherlock glared coldly at her.

She dumped some files on Lestrade's desk, hesitated, then stalked out. Sherlock turned his mind back to his plan.

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><p>He hadn't been keeping track of time, so it came as a surprise when the clock on Lestrade's desk struck two.<p>

He hadn't really got anywhere past 'split John up with that women, and then make sure he stays with me'. Obviously, splitting him up would be the easy part. Keeping him however, wouldn't. He would somehow have to keep all women away from John. And if any formed a connection, he would have to break them up instantly, and painlessly for John.

He got up, Lestrade starting from his work when he saw the detective move.

"You off?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, and not feeling the need to say anything else, left, hurrying as quickly as his long legs would permit back to Baker Street.

When he entered the building, it was immediately obvious John had gone out. Sherlock didn't like the knot in his stomach that formed when he imagined John being with that women. He pounded up the stairs, and bounced into the flat, throwing himself onto the sofa straight away.

Now to wait for John's return. And in the mean time, he could think of a plan for operation split up.

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><p>It was only fifteen or so minutes later that John's footsteps began to slowly mount the stairs. He sounded tired, and despondent. Sherlock felt a flash of worry that <em>he<em> had been the cause of John's sadness, but when John entered the room, and spied him on the sofa, his face momentarily brightened.

Then fell again. He went silently into the kitchen, and Sherlock heard him pull out two mugs, and tap his foot nervously while he waited for the water to boil.

Finally he reappeared with two cups of tea, and handed one to Sherlock. They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sherlock examining John closely. He'd been with Mycroft. That much was clear.

But had his foul brother said? Said that made John look so upset.

"What happened?" he asked finally, his voice sounding far more tender than he intended.

"Mycroft." said John shortly, abruptly standing.

Sherlock frowned, feeling hurt bite at his heart. Did John not want to talk to him? What had that bastard said?

"John? I'm sorry for storming out. I don't mind much." said Sherlock. _I mind a lot. _He silently added.

John seemed to make a effort.

"Sherlock. I really can't talk to you at the moment." he said, breath coming in rough spurts.

Sherlock frowned at him.

"Wha-"

John turned on his heel, and strode out of the room, managing not to spill any tea as he went. Sherlock stared at the doorway, a frown of confusion playing on his features. All he could think was _what did I do?_ And then. _Mycroft! What did the bastard say?_

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><p>Mycroft certainly wasn't the master of hiding. So it took Sherlock less than half an hour to make his way to the man's retreat. That ridiculous club of his which him want to sing at the top of his lungs, just to give all the old fogies in there a heart attack.<p>

So when he finally got through to Mycroft's room, he was quietly satisfied to see a slight look of surprise shoot across his brother's face.

"Mycroft! What have you done?" he demanded, bunching his fists up.

Mycroft took a few seconds to pull himself together, but he finally did, setting down his newspaper and sighing.

"I did it to help you."

"Well it certainly didn't! Can't you keep your nose out my personal business?" Sherlock snarled, throwing himself into a chair.

Mycroft shot him a annoyed look.

"So you wish for John to marry?"

"Wha- Mycroft. What did you say?" Sherlock snapped.

"I merely told him that if he left you, I would have remove his fiancée." said Mycroft calmly rubbing his hands together.

Sherlock silently seethed, glaring at his brother.

"I can fix this situation myself. Do not interfere again." he said coldly.

Mycroft eyed him languidly.

"Very well, little brother. I did you a favour, but choose the hard route because of your pride." he said, picking the newspaper up again and pretended to read.

Sherlock got up slowly, and moved to the door. Yes, Mycroft's way was easier. But he didn't want to hurt John, or more accurately, do anything Mycroft suggested.

"But a warning, my dear brother. No good will come from following any other path." said Mycroft coolly from his seat

Sherlock stormed through the door, slamming it shut behind him.

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><p><strong>There we go! I hope it was okay. Any more reviews would be great! The next chapter will be from John again, but it'll be a while longer than before.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay then. The third chapter. Hope you enjoy it!**

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><p>John felt bad as soon as he snapped at Sherlock. He looked so momentarily confused that John almost apologised. But he didn't. Because in a way he blamed Sherlock for everything. So he just left before he could take his anger out on Sherlock when he should be blaming Mycroft.<p>

It was barely five minutes later that he heard Sherlock call something about going out, and the door slam. Leaving him in peace. Despite the silence, so rare in the flat, being golden, it only meant there was nothing to distract himself from his awful decision.

But there wasn't really a choice. There never had been. He couldn't be the cause of the women he loved's death. One day of happiness. And now, he would doomed to a life with Sherlock.

_Not doomed._ He told himself. Because that sounded like he didn't want to be with Sherlock. Of course he did. He was his best friend. But... The fact he'd never have a women in his life. Somebody to kiss, someone to hug. To buy a house with, and own a pet.

Sherlock absolutely wouldn't give any of those things. And however much he enjoyed being with the detective, it wasn't the same. Never would be.

And he didn't regret for one second ever taking up Sherlock's offer so long ago. Because he would be worse than dead by then. Sherlock had raised him from hell, and showed him light. He would never have gotten engaged to Juliet without Sherlock.

He heaved a huge sigh, and allowed two tears to leek from his eyes. But no more, because there was no point crying. It was over. He pulled out his phone and slowly, mournfully, dialled Juliet's number.

"_John? Is that you darling?"_ she asked, sending a jolt to his heart.

"Yeah. It's me. We need to talk. Can I come round?" he asked slowly.

"_Of course. See you in ten?"_

"Yeah."

John hung up, and wiped the tears away, then he got up a retrieved his coat.

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><p>He rang Juliet's bell ten minutes later, feeling very, very nervous and sad. He just couldn't seem to see anything bright in the world, and couldn't see himself doing so for a long time.<p>

"John? What's wrong?" asked Juliet, hugging him as soon as she saw his face.

He didn't return the hug, feeling it would make things worse to do so.

"Juliet. We need to talk." he said.

Juliet pulled away, and stared worriedly into his face, smoothing his cheek with her thumb.

"Okay. Do you want a cup of tea?"

"No. I want to get this over with."

They stepped into the house, and Juliet led him to the familiar sitting room, with the sofa they'd spent so long cuddling on together watching rubbish TV.

Juliet sat down and pulled him down beside her.

"Tell me." she whispered.

John closed his eyes and swallowed.

"It's about Sherlock." he said slowly.

Immediately Juliet tensed, and he opened his eyes to see her face had gone from tender to jealous.

"What about him?" she snapped.

John sighed.

"He's got a brother, called Mycroft. Today... He..." John slowed, heaving a breath to try and stop his voice from choking.

"What?" asked Juliet, apparently thinking all danger to herself was gone.

"He said that if I married you, he'd have to kill you." said John, knowing that Juliet wouldn't believe him.

"W-what? Why? Is he a-an ex boyfriend?" she asked nervously, but not as terrified as she would be if she knew Mycroft.

"No. Because he thinks that S-Sherlock will... Loose it if I go." said John.

Juliet gave an uneasy laugh.

"But... That's none of your business. He's only a friend, and a bit of a weird one. Surely you can just cut him out?"

John dug his nails into the skin of his palm. He pushed his initial thought of _how dare she insult Sherlock _away, and swallowed again.

"No. You don't understand. He will kill you if I leave Sherlock." said John slowly.

"He's only a man. He can't do anything darling. Stop being silly." said Juliet, trying to kiss him.

John pulled away.

"You're wrong. He's the British government. I assure you he will kill you if I marry you. I can't be responsible for your death." he said, his resolve now hardening.

Mycroft would kill her. And it would be his fault. The only way out was to stay with Sherlock. No matter how hurt Juliet was, she would get her life back together and she wouldn't be dead.

"John! Please... You can't believe this." Juliet pleaded.

"I do. I'm sorry Juliet. I can't marry you." John whispered.

Juliet stared at him for several long moments, blinking away tears. Then she slapped him hard on the cheek.

"I've never heard such a load of bullshit!" she screamed, tears suddenly falling down her cheeks.

"W-what?" John demanded, nursing his throbbing cheek.

"You sick bastard! I know why you're splitting up with me. It's that bloody psycho! You're with him, and you didn't know how to get rid of me!" she sobbed.

"No! I swear. Sherlo-"

Juliet cut him off by slapping him again, with a lot more force.

"Get out of here! I never want to see you again!" she screeched.

John did as she asked, leaving her to cry hysterically into a cushion. He slowly made his way back to the flat, feeling like his life had been dashed. But at least he still had Sherlock. A constant in his life. A rock, however volatile. They anchored each other.

And he wouldn't blame Sherlock for this. He couldn't. It wasn't his fault. But he would have to stay out of the detectives way for a while, just in case he snapped something hurtful.

But however, just as he was opened the flat door, Sherlock came up behind him. He tried not to spin round and scream at the detective.

"John?" he questioned.

John didn't turn round.

"John. I made Mycroft promise not to hurt that women." said Sherlock as he was mounting the stairs.

John froze. _Mycroft had promised not to..._

"Oh god no." he moaned, thinking he might be sick.

"Was that not what you wanted." asked Sherlock, and John didn't miss the hope in his voice.

He slowly turned to face Sherlock. The detective took one look at him, and his lips parted slightly in understanding.

"I'm sorry." was all he said.

And then he pulled the shaking doctor upstairs, offering no comfort except for a cup of tea, before returning to his experiment.

John felt almost upset that Sherlock had not enfolded him in his long arms, and rubbed circles into his back. Which of course was totally ridiculous, ludicrous and crazy. Sherlock Holmes never, ever did anything like that.

But he was aware that Sherlock's intense gaze kept flitting over to him, every time he moved, or made a sound. An attention he didn't generally receive while Sherlock was busy.

And it made him feel special.

So he vaguely watched the detective, feeling grateful he had a friend in dark times such as these.

Sadly it didn't seem that Sherlock went as far as to make dinner, so John was forced to get up from his cocoon of warmth, and heat up a pot of noodles. Once he had gone through the normal procedure of asking Sherlock if he wanted anything, and getting the customary answer of 'no', he wolfed them down, before curling back into a ball of self pity, and slowly drifting asleep.

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><p>He woke up in his own bed, wrapped up in a blanket. His fuzzy brain was silently glad Sherlock hadn't felt the need to undress him. He lay for a few moments, the dull ache of sadness returning.<p>

But it probably wasn't as bitter as it should.

He tried not to think about that, and staggered out of bed.

Half an hour later, he was showered and dressed, and went downstairs to face Sherlock. He was still bent over his experiment, curly black hair hiding his face from view. John watched him for a moment, before going into the kitchen and trying to find a box of corn flakes that hadn't been infested by maggots, kindly introduced by Sherlock.

"Sleep well?" asked Sherlock softly from the living room.

"Yeah, okay." said John uncomfortably.

"You're surprisingly heavy." Sherlock commented, before returning to his pile of toe nails.

John didn't reply, pouring himself a bowl, and eating in silence. In fact, most of the morning passed in silence, Sherlock experimenting on the toe nails, and John thinking about cleaning up, but lying on the sofa instead. It was right after a small lunch that Sherlock set down his knife.

"I'm going to the yard. Fancy coming?" he asked.

John nodded numbly. Sherlock pulled on his coat and scarf, and they walked down onto the street, Sherlock hailing a taxi.

As usual, the ride was taken in silence, Sherlock doing something on his phone, and John staring out the window and fogging the glass. There was no point moping any longer. Even if he asked Juliet to come back, she wouldn't. So he would get over her, and start again with a new girl.

He definitely didn't think Juliet had been his soul mate. So maybe, there was hope he could find a somebody else. He resolved to go out that very evening.

They arrived at the yard, Sherlock bounding out, and as usual leaving John to pay. He followed the detective up to Lestrade's office. Sally was standing guard outside his door, and snorted when she saw Sherlock.

"Oh. Hello freak. Not in your dressing gown this time?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow easily. John felt slightly confused. Sherlock had come here in his fit on anger?

"Disappointed?"

Sally looked briefly horrified.

"No," she then looked over to John. "Made up with your boyfriend?"

John gave a slightly strangled gasp, while Sherlock huffed impatiently.

"The issue was resolved, if that's what you mean Donovan. I had thought eavesdropping was below you, but you continue to prove me wrong," he sniffed.

Thankfully for everybody, Lestrade chose this moment to come out of his office, smiling slightly at John.

"Hello you two. Here for a case?"

"Obviously." snorted Sherlock.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, and ushered them into his room. Sally followed them, leaning on the door and watching the group.

"I heard you got yourself engaged." Lestrade commented, while Sherlock rifled through the papers.

John saw him pause.

"Uh, yes... But we split up yesterday." said John quietly, and Sherlock continued to go through the papers.

"Oh. I am sorry John." said Lestrade.

John shrugged. He didn't need Lestrade reminding him of his ex fiancée. Sally gave a hoot from the doorway.

"So that's why you were here yesterday freak!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

Everybody turned to her, John knowing he probably shouldn't be listening, but doing so anyway. Sherlock didn't look particularly upset anyway.

"Upset your pet was going of with somebody else?" she sneered.

Sherlock closed his eyes as if restraining himself.

"Or were you jealous that your boyfriend had found somebody _normal_?" she continued.

"Sally. Enough." snapped Lestrade.

Sargent Donovan shrugged, shooting Sherlock a look of pure venom. John glanced at Sherlock himself, but his face was calm.

The rest of the trip passed normally, and soon they were back at the flat, Sherlock holding a huge bundle of papers.

"Look, Sherlock. I'm going out tonight, so ask Mrs. Hudson for something to eat." said John.

Sherlock visibly stiffened.

"Where?" he asked, a sharp tinge to his voice.

John watched him closely, but his posture had relaxed slightly, and he hadn't turned to face him.

"Pub." he said, noting Sherlock's slight flinch, before he sat himself down in front of the case files.

"Fine then." he said indifferently, leaving John to wonder if he'd imagined Sherlock strange reaction.

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><p><strong>There! Not to bad, I hope. Please review! They really make me happy, and the more reviews, the quicker the next update will be. <strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay then! Next chapter. Despite some great ideas, which didn't even come into my mind when I wrote this, I stuck with it. I hope its okay. There is a kiss at the end, but sadly not a 'real' one.**

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><p>Three weeks. That's all it had taken John to find a new girlfriend. Sherlock wanted to scream and throw test tube he had been holding at the wall when John had walked in, looking indecently smug. Honestly, did the man have no pride? He'd only broken up with the 'love of his life' less than a month ago.<p>

John's look had faltered when he saw Sherlock's face. But Sherlock had brushed of the questions. He didn't want John asking awkward things. It would soon be time to place his carefully thought through plan into action.

He just needed to wait for John to bring the new girl, Annabel if he wasn't mistaken, round. And two things would make certain this happened.

She would be curious. She would want to know if John had a secret lover or wife tucked away. And John would want Sherlock to look her over and say she wasn't a serial killer.

Of course, if he did say she was a serial killer, he wouldn't believe him. But he would bring her round for that reason anyway. So Sherlock was patient, trying to puzzle out the strange feelings that shot through his usually frozen heart when he saw John return from being with her.

That had been the main matter of thought since Mycroft split Juliet up with John. Why did he even care if John left?

Well, there was the obvious. John was his friend. Something he'd never had before. John worried about him, a trait however foolish that made Sherlock feel his heart burst with pride. To know somebody would care if he was murdered by somebody was a nice feeling.

Though he didn't want to get killed mainly because he was to brilliant to die. But also because he knew it would hurt John if he died. That was very interesting.

So, the deduction was that he cared about John. But there was a twist at the end. One he couldn't work out.

He knew if John married, they'd still be friends. John would still care about him. So what was the problem.

Maybe it was because John wouldn't be with him almost full time. He toyed with this idea for a while, before discarding it. It was more than that. He could add that to original list.

He knew what was at the root of the dilemma. The heart of it.

And that was the very problem. His frozen heart had been thawed, and now he was feeling all sorts of ridiculous things he didn't even understand.

Why did he hate the woman so much even though she spent so little time with John?

Why did he hate it when John even suggested he wanted to spend time with somebody else?

Why did he feel so smug when John came running with a simple two word text?

And why, oh why did he feel need to please John, to be with him, to make him happy?

It was stupid, weak, and pathetic. But Sherlock had a horrible suspicion his feelings about John had gotten deeper. Not that he would ever admit that to anybody. As long as John stayed away from anybody who might take him away, it was all fine.

He silently cursed Juliet for bringing these feelings to the surface. If she hadn't gone and made John propose to her, he would never have realised these feelings lay buried, waiting to spring out.

But he wasn't even really sure what these feelings were. How deep where they? Was he just possessive about a friend. After all, he'd never had a friend before, so he didn't know what feelings came attached.

So his final deduction for this whole, confusing case was that he was simply jealous somebody was taking his best and only friend away.

Case closed.

So he was pleased when John rather uncomfortably announced he was bringing Annabel round. The two of them had been in a relationship for eight weeks, and Sherlock had made some probing attempts to split them. One event coming to mind, three weeks earlier.

John had announced he was going on a date. Sherlock had tried not to give any noticeable reaction to this, simply ignoring him, but made a careful note of what time John left, and calculated.

And then, just when he knew Annabel would be expecting John to make his move, and John was planning said move, he sent a text.

__Emergency. Help.__

Emergency would have been easily enough, but he wanted John to leave Annabel in a hurry, barely explaining his reason for leaving.

If they were serious, it wouldn't split them. But if she wasn't worthy of John's attention (though in his mind nobody except himself was really worthy) she would forgive him. And he could launch attack plan two.

And then he'd positioned himself on the sofa, and with a regretful sigh, drawn out a knife, and made a rough cut on his finger, before pulling the skin apart until the pain was rather intense, and blood was pooling everywhere.

Then he waited, watching blood drip down his finger and onto his palm, and hiding the knife in his pocket.

A thirty seven seconds earlier than Sherlock had anticipated, John hared up the stairs, coming to an abrupt halt before him, panting.

"Sherlock? You okay?" he asked, eyes widening when he saw the blood and obviously fearing a greater wound.

"No. I cut my finger. And it hurts." he said, adding a plaintive touch to his voice.

The pain wasn't actually so bad. More a clean, sharp pain which he once found very appealing. And he certainly had no problem zoning it out.

John came over, examined his finger, and sighed very heavily.

"Sherlock. It's just a surface wound you idiot." he said.

Though Sherlock didn't approve of being called an idiot, it was a worthy price to pay.

"Sorry John." he mumbled, pretending to be embarrassed. "I didn't know what to do and Mrs. Hudson's gone out."

John sighed again, pulled out his phone, and sent a text to Annabel. Then he turned to Sherlock.

"For gods sake Sherlock, next time, please just run it under a cold tap and wrap it in a towel. You nearly gave me a heart attack. I thought... Something bad had happened."

Sherlock nodded, feeling a thrill run him at the idea John was worried about him. The answering text came back soon, and John smiled.

So, plan one had failed. Now it was simply a waiting game until Annabel came round. And then she would find out she was playing against the worlds only consulting detective for John Watson. And that her own emotions would make her loose.

And so, three weeks later...

Sherlock smirked to himself, rolling over on the sofa so he could see the clock on the mantel. Half an hour before Annabel arrived, and battle commenced.

He'd dressed specially for the occasion. The plan would be much more convincing if he wasn't wearing his dressing gown.

He had to admit as he watched the ticking clock that he was a little worried about this plan. John was going to be angry, but he had a explanation. And John always forgave him.

The only niggling thought was that his soft side had brought on this plan. The side that wanted to do it for real.

But he had to admit, if this was the way his soft side thought, it wasn't all so bad. It was an ingenious plan. The only fear was that his feelings would cloud his judgement.

So he felt several different emotions thrill through him when he heard the door open, and murmured voices in the hall. He curled himself a little further down on the sofa. It was imperative that John didn't notice any difference in his behaviour.

John appeared in the doorway, eyes searching the room for his friend, before finally finding him. Behind him was a woman, with the same style as the rest of them.

He glanced over at Annabel, and Sherlock knew he was giving an encouraging smile. Sherlock quickly closed his eyes and waited

"Sherlock?" he asked, stepping into the room.

The detective grunted, opening one eye and peering out. He saw Annabel giving him a curious look, her eyes dancing with interest, but also with an emotion he knew to be jealousy.

"Sherlock. This is Annabel." John introduced his girlfriend proudly.

"Hi." said Annabel, giggling slightly.

"Oh god, not giggling." Sherlock moaned, burying his face in the sofa, and smirking at the stunned silence.

"Do you want wine or something Anna?" asked John, deciding to ignore his flatmate it seemed.

_Wine? Interesting._

"Er, yeah. Sure." said Annabel.

Sherlock listened intently, and felt his insides clench as John obviously kissed her. That was not on. In his, well their, flat. Disgusting.

He sat up, glaring indignantly at Annabel, who had been left by John. She smiled nervously.

"So, you're the one John does anything for." she said, and there was a certain degree of bitterness in her voice.

Beating her would be all to easy.

"Yes. John is my flatmate after all." he said, as though it was perfectly normal for flatmate's to cancel dates because of a text.

"You must be glad to have him." continued Annabel.

_Really, she's just digging her own grave here._ Thought Sherlock, restraining a twisted smile.

"Oh, I am. John's my _best_ friend." he said, with a touch to much innocence.

John returned with two glasses of wine, gesturing for Annabel to seat, and doing so himself. Sherlock curled back into a horizontal position once again, watching the pair closely.

John was used to the intense stare, but Annabel was visibly flinching under it. She'd been in the flat less than ten minutes, and he knew the break up was certain.

"So, you two solve crimes together?" she asked when a silence, comfortable for John and Sherlock became uncomfortable for her.

_Strangers... They ruined everything._ Sherlock mused.

"Ah, yeah. Sherlock does most of the solving." said John, casting a glowing look at Sherlock, which he received with a smile. A real smile.

He saw Annabel bristle at this silent exchange. A closeness she could never hope to obtain. She had no chance. She and John chatted on for about half an hour, and then she excused herself to go to the toilet, and Sherlock knew it was time.

"So, what do you think?" asked John.

Sherlock stood, and casually made his way over, though John seemed to subconsciously tense.

"She seems fine." he said easily.

John looked up at him, eyes expressing a frown his face didn't need to.

"Sherlock, what are you doing." he asked as the consulting detective leaned down, resting his hands on the arms of the chair and bringing his face close to John's.

"Oh, just an experiment." he said absently.

He heard the loo flush, the tap run, and the door open. John eyes were wide, equal parts fear and curiosity displayed there.

Sherlock drew a silent breath, and fitted his lips to John's.

It was like a spark was travelling along his lips, making them tingle. He could feel his heart hammering as he closed his eyes and tilted his head. He'd kissed people before, for cases. But they'd never meant the slightest thing to him. So he considered this to be his first 'proper' kiss.

John hadn't reacted yet.

And despite this all being obviously part of the plan, Sherlock found himself desperately hoping John responded. Because he wanted nothing than to kiss John until his lips were numb.

But John was frozen. His heart was hammering, yes, but that could be shock or fear. But then a few seconds later, he was sure John's taught lips were softening slightly...

Then the moment was shattered by a shriek.

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><p><strong>There we go! I'm a bit nervous about this one, so I really hope its alright... Reviews would be awesome! Especially as this was a tricky chapter to write, and I'm a little apprehensive.<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Okey dokey. A really quick update this time. So be grateful :p I hope the continuation of the little cliff hanger is alright.**

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><p>John had certainly been apprehensive about bringing Annabel round. But she'd been more insistent than Juliet, quite possibly because she'd heard significantly less about the detective. John had been careful not to talk about his flatmate to much. They only time it really came up was when Sherlock made him cancel a date because of a cut finger.<p>

John knew he should have probably been angry, but Sherlock had managed to look so pitiful he couldn't snap at him. Somehow though, the bloody man had managed to pick the worst moment possible.

He told Annabel the next day, and she was forgiving, making him promise it wouldn't happen again. John had crossed his fingers as he did so. Because if Sherlock needed him, then he would go. No matter what.

That was the thing about Sherlock. You never knew what degree of 'emergency' he meant. It could be his phone was in his pocket. Or it could mean he was bound and gagged and being beaten to death by a group of gangsters.

So as he and Annabel walked up to the flat, he was glad to see no smoke pouring from the window. You could never tell when you left Sherlock.

They mounted the stairs, and John cautiously opened the door. Sherlock was on the sofa, curled into an impossibly small ball.

John felt a twinge of fondness as he watched the apparently sleeping detective. He looked so different with his eyes closed. He hated waking the young man, but there was no choice.

"Sherlock?"

Immediately one eye snapped open, eyeing Annabel with equal amounts resentment and suspicion.

"Sherlock. This is Annabel." John introduced nervously.

Annabel stepped forward, simpering slightly.

"Hi." she said, with a slightly nervous giggle.

"Oh god, not giggling." moaned Sherlock.

He turned his face into the sofa, and stayed still. John sighed softly to himself. Then he offered Annabel some wine, and apprehensively left the pair in the main room. He could hear them talking, Sherlock not giving his answers in the usual clipped tones.

He quickly returned with two glasses of wine, Sherlock was sitting, watching Annabel with a strange expression.

"So, you two solve crimes together?" asked Annabel after a short silence.

"Ah, yeah. Sherlock does most of the solving." said John, knowing the detective wouldn't answer.

He glanced at Sherlock, and he smiled happily in response. Annabel didn't seem to like the exchange though, and cleared her throat in a rather annoyed way.

_She wanted to come. _John thought a little bitterly

They talked for a good half hour, Sherlock staying completely silent. Then Annabel left for the loo, and he cautiously turned his gaze on Sherlock.

So, what do you think?" he asked the detective.

He was interested to know, though if Sherlock said anything bad he wouldn't believe him. Sherlock stood, and seemed to prowl over.

"She seems fine." he said, a touch to much casualness in his baritone voice.

John glanced nervously at him, watching as his flatmate drew closer.

"Sherlock, what are you doing." he asked as Sherlock came closer, leaning down so their noses were almost touching.

"Oh, just an experiment." he said vaguely.

That sent a slightly nervous tingle down John's back. Annabel would be back any minute, and who knew what she would think if she saw them like this. Sherlock was gazing at his face, his silver orbs alight with something. And then, before John had time to even know what was happening, Sherlock had travelled the distance between them, pressing his lips to John's.

John froze, feeling the detective tilt his head slightly, and a gentle rush of air tease his cheek as Sherlock sighed. He couldn't seem to get his brain rebooted. He should shove Sherlock off.

But he couldn't quite process what was happening. Sherlock never did anything remotely close to giving affection, and this...

He wasn't saying he didn't like it. Of course he should be. Another man. And Sherlock of all people. But there was something slightly exciting about being kissed by a man who never did anything like that.

He knew he could push Sherlock away. Should yell at him for doing something as forward as kissing. But of their own accord his lips seemed to be responding to Sherlock's plump, soft, warm lips...

A shriek broke him from his daze. Sherlock drew back quickly, apparently loosing his balance slightly and stumbling backwards, a very dazed expression on his face, and a slight frown knitting his browns.

"How could you!" shouted Annabel.

She was directing her anger at Sherlock, something John was secretly glad about. He didn't fancy being slapped twice. However, when Annabel picked up her wine glass and threw it at Sherlock he felt his breath hitch.

"How could you kiss my boyfriend?" she screamed, her voice rising several octaves.

Sherlock was just standing there, his face slack with confusion, and droplets of blood and wind running down his face. The glass had only splintered slightly, something for which John was endlessly grateful. The damage that could have done...

But Sherlock seemed fine, except for his disorientation.

"How can you live with him?" demanded Annabel, turning to John.

The sight of her face, which didn't display any anger at him, did nothing to stop his actions.

"How dare you hurt him." he snapped coldly.

Annabel gaped. Then picked up her handbag and fled the room. Sherlock just stood there, the smashed glass lying at his feet, and looking on the whole like he'd been a nasty fight.

John stood still too, breathing heavily. He shouldn't have snapped at Annabel. But she had hurt Sherlock. Like so many over people had tried to, and succeeded in doing. Sherlock, pursed by so many. And then, his only friend had brought another such person into his safe haven.

"I'm sorry John." said Sherlock miserably.

John sighed.

"Don't worry. But if you kiss me again, I might be throwing a glass at you myself." said John.

Sherlock nodded, and retreated to the sofa, sitting down, and staring vaguely at the wall.

"Here. I'll clean you up." John offered.

He felt stupid for feeling guilty. Annabel had thrown the glass, and Sherlock had been the one who committed the behaviour that extracted that reaction. But he felt guilty anyway.

He got some tweezers, and a damp cloth, and searched his friends face for shards of glass. Sherlock had been lucky, and the few rivulets of blood had been caused by a few very minor cuts. He sat perfectly still, cloud grey eyes unfocused.

John was as careful as he could be. And Sherlock never once flinched away, only hissing once or twice in pain. One he'd got the glass out the way, he wiped the mix of blood and wine away, leaving Sherlock looking like his normal self.

"Alright?" he asked, still feeling a little shaken by that kiss.

Sherlock nodded, curling himself down, apparently in deep thought. His eyes staring the wall unseeingly.

He didn't feel up to asking Sherlock about the kiss, so went to bed. He'd speak in the morning.

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><p>John slowly walked downstairs. He didn't want to have to talk to Sherlock about it. But he had to. So he entered the kitchen cautiously, finding Sherlock staring into the fridge.<p>

"Where are those fingers?" he asked.

"Oh, em. I threw them out." John admitted, a little thrown by this greeting.

Sherlock turned to him, eyes holding something he'd never seen before, and couldn't understand.

"Look Sherlock. I wanted to ask about that kiss." he said finally.

Sherlock shuffled slightly.

"What about it?" he asked petulantly.

"Well... Why?"

Sherlock sighed.

"It was an experiment. About human reactions. When presented with something wholly unexpected." said Sherlock.

John nodded jerkily. That's what he'd wanted to hear, right? Of course it was...

"I'm going to see Annabel." he said.

He had to apologise at the least. Sherlock frowned, turning away a little to quickly.

"Okay."

John nodded, and made his way to the hall.

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><p>He hesitated on the doorstep for a long time, before ringing, and waiting, the packet of chocolates under his arm. Annabel opened it, her face freezing when she saw him.<p>

"I came to apologise. I don't know what came over me." he said, holding out the chocolates.

Annabel watched him, her face hard.

"What, you don't know why you snapped at your girlfriend, because your flatmate kissed you?" she demanded.

"Well... Sherlock did it for an experiment. He didn't mea-"

"Don't give me that rot. I've heard you talking about him. You dote on him. And he... Well it's obvious he's besotted." she snapped.

"Sherlock Holmes? Besotted? You don't know anything about him." John retorted, feeling anger build up in his chest.

"Oh really? If I didn't know better, he was winding me up the whole trip. Those looks he cast you. Those smiles. And then he kissed you. If I ever saw somebody warning me off, that was it." she said angrily.

"No. We're just flatmates..." John started.

"Well, I suggest you get rid of him if you ever want to hook up. Or maybe you can do what he obviously wants, and pick him."

"I'm not gay!" snapped John angrily.

How could she accuse either of them of those things? Sherlock was asexual, and he was perfectly straight. End of any discussion.

Annabel slammed the door in his face, and he stood staring at the door for a moment, before storming off. If that was how she felt, she was obviously no girlfriend. Mrs. Hudson would like the chocolates.

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><p><strong>Sorry its a bit shorter than the rest of the chapters have been. Reviews would be lovely. Perhaps if I get a lot, the next chapter will be up by tomorrow.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay, because of so many lovely reviews, I've done this chapter!f Its fairly boring, more of a filler really. But important. Enjoy!**

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><p>Sherlock had curled down on the sofa when John left. His peace offering wouldn't have any effect. Annabel thought they were at the very least attracted one another.<p>

He found it unsettling how easily he'd been able to pretend John was something really special. A small smile every time he spoke his name. Just a simple look, which lingered a second longer than it should do.

But he found himself wishing John had returned the kiss. That Annabel hadn't separated them. What would have happened? Would John have pulled himself together and shoved him off? Or would he have kissed him back?

Sherlock groaned into the cushion. Things were bad. If he didn't know better, he was falling for John.

It should be impossible. How could a male sociopath fall for a obviously straight man?

So he just lay, listening to his own breath in the silence.

And forming new plans. It seemed the kiss had been something of a revelation. He had at first thought his feelings for John were simply those of friendship. But he didn't believe it was normal to want to kiss your best friend.

And want to kiss him he most certainly did. It had taken a surprising amount of will power to stop himself forcing John against a wall and kissing him until neither of them could stand.

He knew what lust was. But this was something deeper.

Overall it was a wholly confusing matter, and one which he really shouldn't be being troubled with. But he was, so he simply had to find the answer.

It seemed that the best resolve to both problems was to seduce John. That way, John would no longer try and leave him, and he would be able to give in to these feelings. Perfect.

The perfect plan, with a teensy weensy catch.

John didn't love him.

Or feel any attraction toward him as far he could gather.

Still, nothing stopped Sherlock Holmes when he'd made his decision. And if he had to start at square one, so be it. He made the effort to stand up and grab his own laptop instead of John's, drumming his fingers impatiently while he waited for it to boot.

It was time to get a little help from Google.

It took two minutes to realise that Google knew absolutely nothing on the subject. It was ridiculous really. Some of the websites had the worst kind of advice possible. So he closed the tabs, with extra force, and slammed his laptop shut, half tempted to chuck it across the room.

Well, if he could get no help from outside sources, he would do it his own. He didn't need some lovesick teenage girls help anyway. They evidently knew nothing on the matter of seducing.

It would probably more effective to formulate his own plan anyway. And perhaps, once he'd worked out love's formula, he could give some real advice to all the idiots out there.

So he curled down, and thought.

John worried about him. So that meant he cared about him. That was a good step. And it seemed John would do anything if he thought Sherlock was hurt or in danger. He'd abandoned girlfriends during dates, and shouted at them if they hurt him.

So that, it seemed was the beginnings of a plan. If he was hurt... Then maybe, in his panic, John would allow those feelings that _must_ be in there to fly free.

And then the perfect plan blossomed in his mind.

Sherlock smiled to himself, drawing himself into a tighter ball. He would give John a few days, and then act.

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><p>And three days later, his plan was ready to spring into action. He left John early one evening, and strolled for about half an hour, before walking into a suitable looking bar. He hated those places, but it would be worth it.<p>

The music blared, couples on the dance floor did blatantly indiscreet things, and the flashing lights made his vision go funny. He sat himself with a glass of something that was pure compost, and waited for a likely looking individual.

Soon enough, a large man, well built to put it kindly, came within range, and Sherlock stood gracefully. Then he strolled over, and making sure the man would know who did it, knocked his glass from his hand.

The effect was, as he had hoped, instant. The man punched him on the jaw, sending him staggering backwards with a darting pain in his jaw. He fled out before any more injury's could be done, and retreated to a dingy ally, and drew the jar of blood he'd brought, 'borrowed' from the morgue. He gingerly dipped his fingers in, and smeared his face with blood.

Then rolling his jaw, just to make sure the thing wasn't broken. Then he regretfully scooped up some of the dirt from the floor, and smeared the foul stuff over his shirt. He'd not worn his coat for that special reason, not wanting to get the thing dirty. Then, considering himself ready to limp into 221b, he hurried off, drawing many gazes, and even being asked by one simpleton if he was alright.

At least he knew his disguise was well done.

He soon reached the flat, and, just in case John was watching out the window, began to stumble slowly forward. The blood on his face was drying, and it was extremely uncomfortable.

The quicker John got it off the better. He heaved the door open, and 'painfully' limped up the stairs, making as much noise as he could. Then he drew a deep breath, glanced down at his rumpled clothes, and staggered through the door.

John was sitting, writing his blog on his laptop. He didn't glance back when Sherlock entered, eyes glued on the screen.

"J-John." Sherlock croaked, very convincingly if he said so himself.

John turned, eyes widening and lips parting in surprise. Sherlock made a huge effort not to look at those lips. He knew exactly how soft they were, how... _Focus!_ He snapped at himself.

"Sherlock! What the hell? What happened?" asked John, setting his laptop aside and running over, his hands reaching up to cup Sherlock's bloody face.

It was all he could do not to close his eyes at the contact.

"A-a su-suspect. 'ttacked me." Sherlock mumbled, giving John his best wide eyes.

John's eyes flashed angrily, and he patted Sherlock's back gently.

"You're safe now." he said.

Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes. He certainly wasn't a damsel in distress. Even if his wounds had been real, they were nothing he couldn't handle. But, for the plan he had to suffer.

"I know. I'm with you John." said Sherlock, making his voice as shaky as he dared.

His own words nearly made him gag though. _I mean honestly?_

"Okay, sit down and I'll have a look." said John, gently pushed Sherlock into a kitchen chair, and hurrying for the first aid kit.

He sat before Sherlock on another chair, and stared into the detectives eyes for a moment.

"Tell me what happened." he said, reaching up with a damp tissue to wipe some of the blood away.

Sherlock had this all planned out perfectly.

"I was trailing a suspect, when I think he realised he was being followed. He went into a dark ally, and I followed. And then he sprang out, and punched me. And he did that for a bit, before pushing me onto the ground, and running." Sherlock explained at lightning speed.

John nodded sympathetically, gently wiping away some more of the blood. A few minutes passed in silence, John scraping dried blood from Sherlock's skin, and Sherlock wincing in his supposed pain.

John had almost finished, and Sherlock knew it was time to make the final move.

"There. Done. I suggest you have a nap now." said John, withdrawing his hands from Sherlock's face.

Sherlock stole himself, then leaned dangerously far forward, ignoring John's eyes widening in surprise.

"Thank you John." he breathed, close enough to feel John exhale shakily.

Then before he could close the distance between them, and do the thing he'd been wanting to do for three days, John hastily backed away, grabbing his first aid kit, and scooting off his chair.

"You definitely need to sleep Sherlock, you may have been concussed." he said, keeping his back to the detective.

Sherlock considered answering, but seeing it would be wiser to make a tactical retreat until the morning, simply got off his chair, and went into his bedroom. There, he threw himself onto the bed and lay still, listening to his heart thudding.

He'd been so close, and John had moved. Did that mean John didn't want it?

It probably meant John thought he didn't want it, but really, deep down he did. So he would have to coax that bit of him, whatever the personal cost.

His first plan had failed, but it would be the first plan of many. He would regather himself, and tomorrow, plan the next attack. He curled down.

Maybe a little sleep would be a good idea, to clear his mind. That almost-kiss had not been good for clarity of thought.

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><p><strong>Okay then. I hope it was okay! The next update could be either today or tomorrow, depending on review amounts *hint hint*<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay then. Here we are again! Hopes it okay :D**

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><p>At first John didn't want to admit it. He tried not to notice. But it was soon to obvious to miss.<p>

Sherlock was changing.

And he'd started after the kiss.

At first, John thought he was sulking about something. For three days, he barely stirred, eyes following him round the room in an extremely creepy way. And then, he'd come home caked in blood, and gone all soppy.

John also had his suspicions about the blood, as there were no cuts on Sherlock's face, though the purple bruise on his jaw was real. And then, after cleaning him up, Sherlock had gotten dangerously close to kissing him. Again.

And it seemed that whatever plan Sherlock had been about to put into action had been aborted for some reason. And John had the horrible suspicion the plan had been to kiss.

But why on earth would _Sherlock_ want to kiss _him?_ For one thing, Sherlock wasn't interested in anything like that. He'd said so himself when he'd probed the matter. He was married to his bloody work, and yet here he was cheating on it.

Not good.

And when Sherlock decided something, nothing stopped him. And if, all of a sudden, the world's only consulting detective decided he wanted John Watson, he couldn't see much he could do to stop the man.

If he got a girlfriend, then Sherlock would split them up. If he got a fiancée, Mycroft would threaten to blow her up. Though Sherlock had talked to him. An interesting fact.

Why would Sherlock stop Mycroft doing what he was effectively trying to do? Surely that sibling rivalry didn't go that far? But it seemed so, unless Sherlock had other motives...

And for the life of him, John couldn't think of any reason other than the fact Sherlock didn't want to get help from Mycroft.

And then, why this change? The kiss had initiated it. But perhaps it went even further back than that. Now that he thought about it, John found himself remembering all those times Sherlock turned his face away when he talked about dates. When he curled down into an impossibly small ball, and refused to talk.

And that had all started when he got engaged to Juliet. Sherlock had stormed out. He'd been unhappy to say the least. Then they'd split up, and there had been ill concealed joy in Sherlock's voice.

And then Annabel had come along. That text. If John didn't know better, it was a kind of test, to see how close they were. When it failed, Sherlock bided his time, waited until Annabel came round, and then kissed in her full view.

So, the start of events had been kick-started by Juliet. But since the kiss to get rid of Annabel, John hadn't gone out, and Sherlock had still tried something, though John wasn't still sure what exactly his master plan had been.

He glanced cautiously over at the detective, who was stretched on the sofa, ankles crossed. There was a nicotine patch on his bare arm, and the box was within reach, when inevitably Sherlock decided he needed more of a kick.

Now all John had to decide was what to do. That was the hardest.

He could confront Sherlock about his feelings, and tell him to stop, as there was no hope of them being reciprocated. Or he could ignore them, and wait for it to pass, like everything did.

The latter seemed better, as Sherlock probably didn't even have any feelings, and it was all a plan to get him to do something else.

The horizontal detective gave a moan, and sat up.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" he asked.

A little taken aback by this suggestion, John hesitated.

"Alright then." he said, and Sherlock smiled.

Sherlock pulled on his coat, and John his jacket, and the walked downstairs, Sherlock setting off at a quick speed which required John to trot slightly to keep up. Sherlock's pale face seemed slightly troubled, his jaw stiff, and eyes expressing a confused expression.

John let him puzzle whatever it was out without bothering him. They entered Regret's park quickly, Sherlock then slowing his pace to a relaxed stroll, apparently calming down slightly.

"Sherlock? Why are we here?" asked John, suspecting two things.

This was either for a case, or for Sherlock's seducing plans. The detective frowned, worry flashing over his marble like features.

"I wanted to be with you." he said.

John restrained a sigh.

"You were with me in the flat." he pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Coffee?" he asked, effortlessly changing the conversation.

John nodded, and they walked over the small stall. For once, Sherlock decided to pay for something, and they stood in the queue, Sherlock impatiently tapping his foot. They reached the front, and he barked out a command for two black coffee's, snatching them up and shoving one into John's hand.

He seemed in an awful hurry to get away, and was on the point of towing him away, when somebody crashed into him.

The detective lost his balance, and was only saved from plummeting to the ground by John's hand. He dropped the coffee though, and after a moment, managed to regain his balance, giving John a nervous smile of thanks. John returned it, and turned his attention to the person that had attacked Sherlock.

Scratch that. The woman who had very accidentally tripped and caught Sherlock on her way down.

"I am so sorry!" she gushed, biting her lip.

Sherlock gave an angry kind of snarl, though John suspected it wasn't the loss of his coffee he was worried about.

"It's no problem." John said, smiling broadly at her.

She was very pretty, long brown hair, tied into a pony tail. A sharp nose, and soft brown eyes. She turned to Sherlock, and blushed endearingly.

"No harm done?" she asked cautiously.

Sherlock snorted, turning away, but John shook his head.

"Of course not. I'm John, by the way." he said, holding out a hand.

"Oh, I'm Suzie." she said, smiling, and taking the offered hand.

"And this is Sherlock, my friend." said John, gesturing at Sherlock, who was glaring in a most decided manner at Suzie.

She blushed under his gaze, and released John's hand.

"Oh, I am sorry, I didn't realise-"

"He's just my friend." John said firmly.

Suzie blushed, and Sherlock stood still for a moment, before striding away, shoulders slouched and a little defeated.

"He's a bit funny sometimes..." John said, watching his flatmate guiltily.

"Oh, I quite understand." said Suzie.

They exchanged smiles.

"Fancy a walk?" asked John.

Suzie nodded eagerly, and he took her arm.

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><p>Half an hour later, he returned to the flat, a date fixed for the next night, and feeling on the whole very pleased. Suzie was absolutely delightful.<p>

He cautiously mounted the stairs, and entered the flat. There was no sign of Sherlock anywhere. He felt guilt twinge at his heart again. Sherlock had wanted them to spend some nice, relaxing time together, and he'd ruined it for the detective.

"Sherlock?" he called softly.

There was a muffled sarcastic comment from Sherlock's bedroom, and John hurried over, only the find the door was locked.

"Sherlock. Open up." he said.

"No." Sherlock snapped irritably.

John sighed. There was no tempting Sherlock out when he was in a black mood. He went to make some tea, pushing all the feelings to do with Sherlock away.

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><p>Sherlock had emerged from his room the next morning, looking normal. John wasn't sure what he really expected, or hoped, Sherlock would look like. Distraught? Angry? Grief stricken? Well, he wasn't any of these things. The detective just sat down behind his microscope, and didn't stir all morning.<p>

John had made some feeble attempts at conversation, but Sherlock had simply given him the 'shut up' look. Lunch passed, and the normal feeling had fallen on the flat. Sherlock seemed to be behaving quite normally, and John felt hopeful that maybe he had realised John didn't want him like that.

At any rate, by the time six o'clock struck, John was fairly comfortable about leaving him.

"I'm going out. Try and be good." he said, knowing he sounded like he was talking to a child.

"Yes John." Sherlock snapped.

John smiled. It seemed things were back to normal.

He arrived at the restaurant Suzie had suggested on time. He only ever went out to Angelo's, or got takeaways, and taking his date to Angelo's seemed like treason of the highest kind.

That was where he and Sherlock went.

He sat down, and barely two minutes later, Suzie appeared, giggling slightly at she sat down.

"Hello." John said awkwardly.

She smiled shyly, and they took the menu's and ordered.

"So, tell me what you do." Suzie said once the waiter had left.

_Oh goodness, here we go. _John thought, preparing himself.

"I'm a part time doctor." he said.

"Oh. I've always been fascinated by medical things. And what else?"

"Well, I live with my flatmate, Sherlock. He's a consulting detective. I sometimes help him on his crime solving." said John, feeling himself swell slightly in pride.

Not many people got to help the great Sherlock Holmes.

"Wow. That sounds... Exciting. And Sherlock, what a queer name. Matches his personality does it?"

John frowned slightly. He knew he shouldn't take offence everyone took a dig at Sherlock, but he couldn't help but feel slightly annoyed.

"He's a little strange." he said weakly.

The conversation drifted on, and food was served. That was when John began to fidget. Sherlock would be almost sure to text soon. Suzie noticed it, and soon questioned the reason.

"Is something bothering you, John?" she asked, shyly pressing his hand.

"No, not really... It's just... Sherlock, he gets himself into trouble and I worry about him." he said, shaking his head.

It was never, ever good to talk about Sherlock on dates.

"He seemed very... fond of you." said Suzie.

John shrugged.

"I don't know how he feels really."

At that moment, his phone buzzed, and he swiped to quickly from his pocket, fear blocking up his throat.

__Going down to the Yard. Fancy coming? - SH__

John sighed heavily in relief. Thank goodness Sherlock was alright...

"What is it?" asked Suzie.

"Nothing. Sherlock being annoying." he said.

__No, I bloody don't 'fancy' coming. I'm on a date.__

There conversation went easily on for ten minutes, then John's phone bleeped again.

__Lestrade has a case. Sounds alright. Triple homicide. - SH__

Suzie gave a cough, tearing John's gaze from the phone.

"Sherlock again, I'm afraid. He's got a triple murder." John informed her.

Suzie looked a little queasy.

__Okay then. Have fun.__

They were onto dessert when the phone bleeped again. John smiled apologetically, and picked it up.

__I will. - SH__

John decided replying would only encourage the man, and he ignored the text. Dessert was finished, and finally they parted ways at the door, John kissing Suzie's cheek. She giggled delightedly, and they arranged a date in four days time.

That would give him plenty of time to help Sherlock with this triple homicide.

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><p><strong>There! In the next chapter, things really start moving. Reviews are more than welcome, and help shorten the length of time it takes to update!<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Okay, I've been extra speedy, and done the next chapter! Its a bit shorter, and ends in a very nasty cliffhanger :p**

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><p>That Suzie had ruined his and John's little outing. He'd spotted her long before John, and attempted to abort the impending disaster when the clumsy women bumped into him. And then it had all spiralled out of control.<p>

He'd stormed off, knowing that there was no way he would get John away from her. Then he'd locked himself in his bedroom, and thought.

Things were bad. John was giving him continuous signs that he wasn't attracted. And insisted on dating every women that stumbled across his path. And they appeared to throwing themselves in front of him.

But, no fear. He still had some ideas left. And he was not going to admit defeat. John returned, obviously pleased. So he'd gotten a date with this new women.

The night had passed easily, new plans forming themselves.

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><p>Twenty four hours later, John left on his date. This time. he was going to let John enjoy it. So he headed off to the yard, informing John, just in case the wanted to come.<p>

The text back apparently said not.

Lestrade had a triple homicide, which sounded interesting. He told John, just in case it tempted him to leave Suzie and come crime solving.

No such luck.

He gave up, took the files from Lestrade, promised to be round in the morning to look at the scene, and left. He spent all evening reading them.

A husband and wife, along with their child. All shot through the head and placed in the living room. No sign of a break in, or break out. He had just decided there was no way he could tell without visiting the scene of the crime, when John arrived.

He gave him a cold look, and pretended to return to the files, even though he'd read them twice.

"Is it any good, Sherlock?" he asked.

_The use of my name in an attempt to reconcile me._ Sherlock mentally noted.

"It's alright. I'm going round tomorrow." he said coolly.

"Can I come?" asked John, and Sherlock knew he really wanted to come, and wasn't faking it to get in his good books.

"Yes." he said bluntly.

John wished him a goodnight, and trudged up stairs.

The date had gone well, it seemed. Except for his texts. And even they hadn't really dimmed it.

Suzie was an opponent he would have to take seriously. Using the same plan that rid him of Annabel was too risky. So a new one would have to be formed.

Not that hard for the word's only consulting detective however.

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><p>He most have drifted off at some point in the night, as when he woke, he was wrapped in a ridiculous blanket. He disentangled himself from the drape, which seemed to be doing its best to cling onto him, and looked round he flat.<p>

He could hear the shower running, so it must be about eight o'clock. There was a faint smell of toast, which actually made Sherlock consider eating. A glance at the mantel piece clock, which wasn't wholly reliable since he'd shot it, told him it was quarter past eight. Perfect.

They could get down to the yard by nine. He hurried into the bedroom, and changed from his dressing gown. He didn't think Lestarde would appreciate twice in a row. Then he sat on the sofa, and waited for John.

He finally appeared, dressed and washed.

"Morning." he said, cheerfully enough, but with a cautious edge to his voice.

Sherlock smiled, and jumped to his feet.

"Ready?"

John nodded, and they made their way downstairs. It was a blustery morning, the wind blowing litter and leaves alike down the street, causing a clatter. Sherlock grabbed a cab, and they hurried in, glad for some shelter from the wind.

"When did you last eat?" asked John, frowning at him.

There was that concern again. John didn't hate him. And it must have been that wrapped him up in the blanket. A sweet, if useless touch. But the sentiment behind it made Sherlock feel pleased.

"Yesterday." he lied.

It had actually been the day before that. But John would insist they stop if it were any longer. John nodded, apparently not noticing the lie.

They arrived at the yard, Sherlock telling the cab to wait, to find Lestrade actually waiting outside for them. Sherlock scrambled out, waiting briefly for John. He seemed to like that kind of thing.

"You two alright?" asked Lestrade, which was a stupid question.

John nodded amiably.

"Fine." he said.

Lestrade smiled, then looked at Sherlock.

"Ready?" he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, nodding anyway. A few more police officers gathered, then Sherlock and John returned to the cab, while Lestrade and co. piled into some police cars.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up outside an old house on a street, the gate covered in crime scene tape. Sherlock paid the cab, still mildly thoughtful of John, and what he would like. He hadn't actually come up with a plan for splitting him up with Suzie yet. But in time, it would come.

Then they went to gate, and were met my Lestrade.

"So, what do you think?" he asked, gesturing at the house.

Sherlock sniffed.

"Well, I can't tell much. Your officers have ruined any possible evidence." Sherlock said sharply.

Lestarde nodded, used to the normal tirade about his men. They walked through the gate, Sherlock snapping on some latex gloves as he went.

The officer on the door let them through, and Sherlock pushed all thoughts of John, John and John from his head, and concentrated on what he could see, or rather, observe.

The hallway was of little interest. Only telling him a little about the family.

"How long were they dead when they were discovered?" he asked, running a hand along the wall.

"Oh, only half an hour or so. An aunt had a dining arrangement."

Sherlock hummed, and strode into the living room. This told him a little more, though the police had disturbed most of the evidence.

"Pictures?" he asked, holding out a hand absently as he surveyed the room.

Lestrade handed him a few pages, and Sherlock scanned them keenly. It showed the living room, with two bodies positioned on the sofa, though from the obvious lack of blood, they hadn't been killed there, and another stretched on the floor, not killed there either.

Very interesting...

The next ten minutes passed quickly, Sherlock whirling round the house, trying to piece together the facts.

The people had been dead less than half an hour when the police arrived. Two had been killed in the kitchen, an adult and child. And then the last adult killed at the doorway. That would suggest he heard the shots, and rushed down, only to be killed.

And then, they had been dragged into the sitting room.

From a card Sherlock had picked up on the kitchen table, it seemed the killer had been allowed into the house under the pretence of being a plumber - and though it could be coincidence they shared the same surname - to fix something. There were no tools, or broken appliances however.

So, who was this mystery plumber?

Sherlock paced the living room, rubbing his hands together, trying to ignore the fact John's gaze was on him.

Two people had been placed on the sofa's... That would mean the killer had been interrupted... By the aunt? Quite possibly.

So why? Where? And who?

The three questions, which would answer each other.

This was proving a little trickier than he had first thought, and then it struck him. Perfect. Simple.

"Hah! Yes." he muttered, bounding from the room, and dashing up the stairs.

He heard Lestrade yell something, and John call out worriedly, but he ignored them. He had solved it. That high of thrills and excitement shot through him as he raced into the first bedroom. A quick glance told him it wasn't the room.

John and Lestrade were at the top of the stairs, both looking resigned as he dashed out of that room, into the next.

And this was the one! He bounded over to the bookcase, crouched down, and examined it closely. Yes. Certainly. He shoved the bookcase aside.

The man hidden there snarled, raised the gun, and fired.

Sherlock was aware vaguely of a pain, though he wasn't sure where. Somebody screaming blue murder, muffled thuds, shouts. And more panicked talking. Then he closed his eyes, and wondered if the shuddery breath he drew would be his last.

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><p><strong>There! Told you there was a cliffhanger. Anyway, hope it was enjoyable. I'll be updating soon. Please review! They are good for my confidence (=<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Okay, I've taken pity on you all and done the next chapter! Did you really think I'd kill Sherlock? :D Anyway, enjoy!**

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><p>It had taken Sherlock twenty minutes to suddenly dash off, declaring triumphantly that he had solved it. He'd rushed up stairs, and John and Lestrade had exchanged eye rolls, and slowly followed him.<p>

"So, what actually happened with your fiancée?" Lestrade asked.

They'd been to the yard several times, and he hadn't brought the subject up. Evidently he felt eleven weeks was plenty of time to recover from such trauma.

"Oh... An argument. About Sherlock." he said cautiously.

It didn't hurt any more. Hadn't for a very long time indeed. He felt slightly guilty about the whole thing, but hadn't thought about Juliet for a long while. Probably not since he met Annabel.

Lestrade nodded, and they reached the landing, Sherlock running down the corridor, and diving out of sight.

"He seems a bit down." Lestrade said as they strolled towards the room.

John started.

"Oh, does he?"

Lestrade nodded.

"No sarky comments directed in Anderson's direction since he turned up in is dressing gown."

John was trying to think of an answer, when there was a snapping crack. Both he and Lestrade froze, and only one thought through John's head.

"Oh my god, Sherlock!" he gasped, flying forward, fear for his flatmate blocking out everything else.

Lestrade was on his heels. They entered the room, Lestrade tackling a man holding a gun to the ground and screaming for help. John didn't even glance at the struggling murderer.

Instead he jumped across the room, landing beside Sherlock, feeling panicked sobs attack his chest. He dropped to his knees, mainly because his legs gave out.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" he whispered, his hands trembling at they took the detectives face, smoothing the pale skin that stretched over his cheek bones.

Sherlock's eyes tried to stay open, before the quicksilver-like orbs closed, and he drew a raspy breath. John swallowed hard, a trembling hand moving to the pulse point on that long, elegant neck.

"Thank god." he breathed as he felt a fairly strong pulse.

He tried to switch into doctor mode, but his hands were shaking, and his stomach twisted in fear. And all he could think was _Sherlock. Please, please please be okay. I need you._

He didn't care what these thoughts were, all he cared about was the detective surviving. He pulled Sherlock's overcoat off, and ripped the purple, blood stained shirt open.

Everything was coated in blood, and he soon found the source, on the left hand side, at the bottom of Sherlock's easily visible ribs. He breathed a shaky sigh of relief when he carefully felt the bone, and found the rib was cracked, or broken, but that seemed to be the extent of the wounds. Though of course he couldn't be sure...

"Bloody hell. Somebody call an ambulance!" a flustered Lestrade shouted.

John barley glanced in his direction. The murderer was handcuffed, and struggling. Lestrade was looking pale, staring at Sherlock.

John turned back to him, rocking forward and bringing the limp detective's head to his chest, and trying to hold back the tears of relief, and fear as he rocked on his heels for a moment.

His stomach was taught with anxiety, the shaking of his hands, the tears running down his face. It all led to the conclusion he was terrified. He swallowed as he drew back and stared into Sherlock's peaceful face. He was so pale, like a beautiful statue, carved from marble. He looked young and vulnerable.

His black hair was slightly ruffled, and his eyelids fluttering violently, along with the raspy breath.

"Hold on." he whispered, smoothing the hair from Sherlock's clammy forehead.

The consulting detective breathed his name softly, eyes fluttering for the briefest moment, before closing again. John pulled Sherlock's scarf carefully away from his neck, and gently pressed it to the bullet wound, careful not to put to much pressure on. It would be hard enough for Sherlock to breath as it was.

Lestrade knelt beside him, tactfully ignoring the doctor's tear stained face.

"Is he... okay?" he asked.

"Y-yeah... Broken rib. The bullet ricocheted." _Thank god._

"Good. Good. The ambulance is coming, and then we can get him to hospital." Lestrade said, standing, and squeezing John's shoulder.

He knew the officer had said it simply for his benefit. But he didn't care what the man thought. In that one awful moment, he'd thought he'd lost Sherlock. And now nothing else mattered. Because Sherlock was still with him, for now.

He sat beside the detective, hand gently rubbing circles into Sherlock's limp palm, the other hand pressing the bloody scarf to the wound. Sherlock would kill him later... If there was a later.

The roar of the ambulance soon was to be heard on the street, and medics rushed up, easing Sherlock onto a stretcher, and carrying him away. John slowly followed, and after some insistence from Lestrade, was allowed to climb into the ambulance beside Sherlock.

He didn't think on that long ride to the hospital, only half aware of Sherlock's hand in his, and the tight grip he had on it. Then when they arrive, he was chivvied away, and told to wait. They promised to bring him news.

So he sat in the waiting room, the cries and wails of other people dimming. He just couldn't think any further than _please god, let him live._

Minutes passed. Or they could have been hours. He didn't know. He didn't care.

Then he was aware of somebody sitting beside him. He looked up to see Mycroft's calm and composed face. He knew he should feel anger, since their last encounter had ruined his relationship with Juliet, but he could only feel relief at seeing the Holmes brother. Mycroft patted his shoulder, a very intimate gesture for the man. John was faintly surprised, and worried. Was it meant to comfort him for bad news? Anything could have happened. What if the bullet or rib had punctured a lung, or... He swallowed hard.

"How are you?" Mycroft asked.

John shook his head.

"Fine... H-hows Sherlo...?"

"He'll be fine." Mycroft said gently.

John breathed a sigh of relief, knotting his hands together and jiggling his knees.

"Do you want to sit with him?"

John silently nodded, and Mycroft led him down endless corridors and doorways, before finally striding through a door, into a private room. Sherlock was lying on the bed, white as the sheets which covered it, but the steady bleeping of a heart monitor announced that all was well.

"Oh... Thank goodness." John breathed, practically collapsing into the seat beside Sherlock, and watched his face.

He was fine. He was alive. He wasn't going to die.

"He should wake by this evening." said Mycroft from the doorway.

It was strange that Sherlock's family, being Mycroft, didn't really belong at his brothers side. He didn't look right even being in the room. Far to formal. Far to unconcerned. As if he didn't care either way.

"Okay... Could you-"

"I've already done it." Mycroft said, giving a thin lipped smile.

"Oh, thanks."

"It's the least I can do."

John wasn't sure what that meant, but didn't like to dwell on it too long. He was frightened.

Frightened about how Sherlock's momentary limbo in his mind had caused him so much panic. And how he just couldn't tear his eyes away from that pale, still face, assuring himself over and over that Sherlock was fine.

"I shall be round in the evening. The nurses will bring your things."

John nodded absently, hearing Mycroft leave the room. He sighed, carefully leaning over the young man and looking down at him. Then on the spur of the moment, he gently pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead, pulling away quickly, and stroking the detective's cheek.

Then he took his limp hand, and began to wait, absently rubbing circles into the smooth skin.

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><p><strong>Okay then... I'm pretty pleased with that. We will be seeing more of Mycroft in the next chapter. Not sure when that will be. Maybe today *shrugs* Review? Yes please :p<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**Here we go, next chapter! I'm afraid we have some more of Mycroft's meddling, so brace yourselves :p**

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><p>It was like different parts of his body woke up at different times. The first thing he was aware of was a firm, comforting pressure on his right hand. He recognised the calloused finger that gently traced the lines on his palm. John.<p>

Then he was aware of the smell. The nose burning smell of a hospital. He'd recognise it anywhere.

And finally, the aching pain. Not very strong, but there. On his left side, second from last rib.

He couldn't seem to quite work out what had happened. There had been the house... Triple homicide.

But then what?

He couldn't seem to remember. Strange. Maybe he'd accidentally deleted it? Or perhaps the sedatives were having bad effects with his mind.

Sedatives... Hospital... John holding his hand. That all led to the conclusion he had been hurt. Something to do with that case Lestrade had given him, as his last memory was entering the house.

Then he remembered. The murderer hidden behind the bookshelf. He'd been shot.

The shouts, bangs, and somebody stroking his face. That would have been John. Did that mean there was still hope?

He opened his eyes, and let the roam around the room, before settling on John. He was reading a book, somehow managing to turn the pages one handed.

"Did they catch him?" Sherlock asked.

John started, attempting to snatch his hand away, but the tightening of Sherlock's fingers stopped him. He blushed, closing the book.

"Yeah, they did." he said, staring at Sherlock as if he couldn't get enough of him.

There were very faint traces of tears on the doctor's face. Interesting. John had been that worried about him? John attempted to free his trapped hand again, but Sherlock wasn't having that, settling back into the fluffy pillow, and revelling in the feel of John touching him. It was nice. Relaxing.

John didn't try and pull away, and gradually restarted his gentle rubbing. That was even nicer, and Sherlock sighed contentedly.

"What happened?" he asked finally.

"You were shot." John said.

"I know that. How bad?"

John probably flushed in embarrassment, though it was only a speculation as he didn't want to open his eyes.

"Bounced off your second rib. Broken, I'm afraid." John replied.

Sherlock nodded absently, his wind already whizzing off in different directions.

Each and every path leading to John. Was this hand holding a one off, or was it a sign John's inner feelings were coming through? Or did friends hold each others hands? His inexperience in this area was certainly frustrating. As far as he remembered, he hadn't seen two grown men holding hands, but, maybe he'd deleted it? After all, he hadn't thought he would need that kind of data.

And he was surprised by how much he liked it... Generally, he hated being touched. But John was different. John was an exception in everything. He was special.

"How long have I been here?" Sherlock asked.

It was a necessary question. He hadn't wanted to ask anything, but needs must. The silence wasn't that golden.

"You're on the same day still. This morning, you were shot." John answered, his hand rubbing faltering.

Sherlock pushed his hand a little closer to John's, and he seemed to get the hint.

"And when can I come home?" he asked.

The quicker he got out of this sterile environment, the better. And then he could process all the new data.

"Tomorrow. I'll come and pick you up."

Sherlock groaned. A whole night in this place? And with no John. He'd have words with Mycroft. They sat in blissful silence, John seeming to forget all his troubles as he returned to his book, still keeping a tight grip on Sherlock's hand.

It was a good hour later that Mycroft entered, breaking the gorgeous moment. John snatched his hand away from Sherlock's before the detective could react, and hastily, rather guiltily shuffled away. Mycroft smirked infuriatingly, and stepped over.

"Would you mind leaving us for a moment John?" he asked, smiling with thin lips.

John nodded, and hastened from the room, giving Sherlock one lingering look before stepping into the hallway.

Mycroft took his seat, and the two brothers stared at each other for a moment.

"I will warn you one last time, Sherlock." Mycroft said coolly.

"Warn me from what?" Sherlock asked petulantly, though he knew what his brother was eluding to.

"If you continue like this, I'm afraid John will end up caring for you, in a romantic way." Mycroft said.

"And what if that's what I want?" Sherlock replied.

And it really was what he wanted. He didn't know why. He didn't know when it had started. But he realised that since the kiss, eleven long weeks ago, he'd been desperately wishing, desperately hoping that John could return his feelings. That he would be able to act on them.

But John was straight. He didn't feel attracted to him. Their relationship, what there was of it, was platonic. And he didn't have the courage to give John a direct choice. Because if John refused him... He'd loose his only friend.

"What happened to 'sociopath'? What happened to the man who cared for no one and nothing?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't see why you should bother yourself." snapped Sherlock.

"I am concerned for both you and John-"

Sherlock scoffed, but Mycroft continued.

"If you loose John because of this... It isn't worth that. And the things you could do to John. If you enter into this, you could break him with a single word. And do you even really know if these feelings are real?" Mycroft said.

Sherlock considered. His feelings were real. He wouldn't hurt John. Not now, not ever. But, John could hurt him...

"I don't care." he said, and he meant it.

"I advise against it." Mycroft insisted.

"I never listen to you." Sherlock replied coldly.

"Just this once, do, little brother. Do listen." Mycroft said.

Sherlock sneered. He wasn't going to listen to Mycroft. He never would.

"John!" he called.

The doors opened several moments later, and John entered, looking nervously between the two brothers.

"Remember what I have said, Sherlock. And remember what a Holmes' strength is."

And then he strode from the room, giving John a brief, yet cordial handshake.

Sherlock sank back into his pillows. _The strength of the Holmes family lies in their inability to care, and be weighed down be feelings._ Well, he didn't care. If he was going to be even more of a black sheep, so be it. He wasn't going to give up. John looked at him curiously.

"What's a Holmes' strength?" he asked, a little nervously.

"Not to care." Sherlock replied softly.

That would give John plenty to think about. It would be fairly easy for him to guess what their conversation had been about. And then, he could make his own choice.

John hid his momentary surprise well, and sat back down. But he didn't retake Sherlock's hand.

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><p>The next morning John came to pick him up. The night had passed very slowly for Sherlock. He'd listened to footsteps outside in the corridor, snapped at the nurse that check in on him at midnight, and thought about John.<p>

But he also thought about what Mycroft said, though he was loathe to admit it.

He wasn't worried about himself. He knew he wanted it. For the first time in his life, he wanted to be romantically attached to somebody. A scary thought. But John didn't seem to share the feelings.

And maybe, he didn't want it full stop?

And he, Sherlock, was seducing him against his will. Would it mean it was best to stop now, before John finally crossed the line? Or keep on going, and hope that John either grew some feelings, or didn't notice he didn't have any.

The problem Sherlock was trying to unravel was how love worked. Did you fall in love with somebody, and then just snap out of it? Could you only fall in love if you were physically attracted to the other?

That rose an interesting question, was he actually attracted to John?

Sherlock thought on that one for a while. He supposed he was. When John was in the room, he couldn't help but think how lovely his eyes were, or remember how soft his lips were. And if he stripped of his jumper, it was all he could do not to stare.

But that didn't answer the question. And for the first time in eleven weeks, Sherlock began to doubt his plan.

John came for him at ten, and he was pleased to see him again.

"Sleep well?" he asked as he walked into the room.

"I didn't." Sherlock replied, trying to puzzle John out with a look.

His emotions were proving frustratingly hard to read.

"Lestrade called, to check if you were alright." John said, seating himself.

"How very kind of him."

John smiled ruefully.

"Ready to go then?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly, and a five minutes later was walking down the hall with John. Or rather, limping slightly, and concentrating on breathing.

They finally arrived in the flat, and he carefully sat down, wincing slightly.

"How long will this take to heal?" he asked impatiently.

"About six weeks, if you're lucky." John said.

Sherlock grimaced. He eased himself into a lying position, and a few minutes later gratefully took a cup of tea from John.

He had some to his decision seducing wise.

To not continue any further with the plan.

He knew he loved John, and when you loved somebody, he heard you made sacrifices for them. So he would do the same for John. John wanted to go out with women, not him. So he would let him, and harbour these feelings. But not act on them.

He only wanted John to be happy. And if letting him see somebody else did that, then so be it.

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><p><strong>There! But don't give up hope, I have a plan. Reviews are brilliant, I read every one of them. Next chapter, we'll finally get progress. Time = Amount of reviews :D<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**Okay then. Sorry about the wait for this chapter. I'm not quite sure about it, but I tried rewriting it, and it just didn't work, so I'm taking the plunge and hoping for the best!**

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><p>In the first week of being back from the flat, Sherlock was fairly quiet. He didn't move much, complaining loudly every time he was forced to do so. John could tell that apart from the pain, Sherlock was finding it hard to be unable to run, and move with his normal fluid and graceful motions.<p>

The bruising was just beginning to go down, and John thought the bone was knitting well. He'd check it everyday, for two reasons.

One, and the more professional one, was that he wanted to make sure no harm was going to befall Sherlock through lack of care.

But also, because it gave him a brief moment to touch that gorgeous, smooth chest. He knew he shouldn't. He tried to tell himself he wasn't. But it was no good.

He was smitten. He'd always thought Sherlock was handsome in a sharp kind of way. Now he seemed to be irresistible. His eyes, like tiny silver circles, and so bright. And his aristocratic face, with the perfectly formed nose, and sharp cheekbones. And his curly hair, which looked so soft... His lips, and he knew exactly how soft and warm they were.

Not good.

It had been those few moments of pure fear. Thinking Sherlock was gone. He knew he wouldn't be able to go on if Sherlock went. Sherlock was his anchor. The person that made him feel alive.

And the thought of loosing that... Nothing else mattered. What people thought. What he himself even thought. Nothing at all, except for Sherlock's cloud grey eyes to look at him again.

And that momentary freedom from all the things that weighed him down seemed to have let out some new feelings. Ones he had been suppressing for a long time.

So now he was in a predicament. He could barely keep his eyes of Sherlock. Wanted nothing more than to curl up in his lap and stroke his hair. And Sherlock was bound to notice at some point.

And then what would happen to their friendship?

Sherlock wouldn't want to keep him around if he knew he was falling for the him. He would be even more of a liability than before. And Sherlock couldn't afford to have liabilities.

He had also been thinking about what the two brothers had been speaking about. _Remember what I have said, Sherlock. And remember what a Holmes' strength is._ What was that all about? He almost wished he'd eavesdropped on the conversation.

He really had no clue. It could mean anything. He knew what he hoped it was. But didn't dare admit it to himself, in case he was wrong. Which he almost certainly was. Because, as Mycroft had effectively said, Holmes' didn't care.

So now he was trapped inside 221b with the new centre of his thoughts, unable to get away often, and fearing that with every word he spoke, Sherlock would realise he was harbouring feelings.

And despite the fact Sherlock had kissed him once, and almost done the same again, he didn't seem to be showing any interest whatsoever now. It had obviously been some kind of experiment. Because Sherlock Holmes did not have romantic feelings.

By week two, Sherlock was able to move around comfortably, though not get into any of the extreme position's he generally contorted himself into. John felt fairly happy about leaving the detective by that point. He couldn't do himself any major harm, and at the same time, could do what he wanted and get what he needed.

So he arranged a date with Suzie, because he'd not seen her for two weeks. She was, to say the least, annoyed. But Sherlock took priority. Always.

He was hoping that spending time with Suzie would wean him of Sherlock. And hopefully he could forget about these new feelings. He was supposed to be straight, for gods sake. But apparently he wasn't. It was unnerving to say the least.

Sherlock wasn't best pleased when he said he was going on a date, but John assumed that was because he didn't like being ignored.

He met Suzie at the same restaurant as before, and they had a very enjoyable meal together. Though there was not a peep from Sherlock. A fact that rather annoyed John. His phone lay on the table the whole evening, and it didn't buzz once.

Suzie had questioned him slightly about Sherlock, and he had answered as quickly as possible, in case she realised the truth. They parted with a brief kiss, so unlike Sherlock's 'experiment' thirteen weeks ago.

That had been full of feeling and care, dare he even say passion. His and Suzie's kiss was brief, to the point, and more out of duty on his side. In short, it felt wrong.

He returned to find Sherlock locked away in his room, apparently asleep.

The detective seemed even more aloof than usual at the moment. Not _deigning_ to talk unless necessary, and barely glancing at him

Week three, and another date later, Sherlock was going stir crazy. He'd apparently done every experiment possible. John had already been commissioned to go out to the morgue and charm Molly into giving him a digestive tract.

Why Sherlock didn't go himself, he didn't know. The rib was doing well, and he could walk around quite easily. He and Suzie were getting along nicely, though John knew he could never love her as much as she deserved. He would have to break it off at some point, before he went to far.

Sherlock was particularly morose, glaring at the wall for hours on end, and then starting about a mile when John broke his train of thought. He wasn't sure what was wrong with the detective, apart from 'no case syndrome'. And the symptoms of that were generally much louder, and more expensive.

It was a date night when Sherlock gave a snarl of frustration, and rose to his feet.

"I'm going to the yard." he said.

John hesitated, then nodded, grabbing his coat. His date wasn't until six o'clock, and it was currently two, so there was plenty of time. They walked slowly down on the pavement below, Sherlock latching himself on John's arm, a new habit of his. John liked the firm feeling of Sherlock's fingers round his wrist, and had never complained.

He supposed it was something to do with Sherlock feeling off balance because of his ribs. It was the only actual contact he ever got with the detective, except for the rib examination.

Sherlock hailed a cab, and carefully climbed in, John following and slamming the door shut. Sherlock stared dreamily out the window, while John watched him out the corner of his eye. One of the small pleasures he allowed himself.

They arrived at the yard, John helping Sherlock out the cab, a service he wouldn't normally offer, or Sherlock would accept. Then Sherlock took his arm again, gave one the those smiles which were like gems, and steered John up to the building.

They entered Lestrade's office, Sherlock bypassing the normal security measures. Lestrade, to his credit, didn't look surprised to see them, just giving a sigh.

"I've got a case for you. Murder. It'll have to do. I've got one of my officers down there, he'll let you in." Lestrade said wearily.

They got the address, and were off again, finally arriving outside a derelict building. Crime scene tap covered almost every available surface, and a forensics team were routing around in the garden. Sherlock stepped out, waited for John, and together they made their way over.

"Sorry sir, no civilians beyon-" a guarding policeman began.

"Get whoever's in charge here." Sherlock snapped, drawing an steady breath and holding his side for a moment.

The officer sighed and scurried off, Sherlock taking John's wrist in his bony grip again.

"You said it would be better by now." he complained.

"I said six weeks, not three." John reminded him.

A tall, lanky officer with straight brown hair, and a bemused expression walked over.

"Who are you?" he asked Sherlock, giving him a look John didn't like one bit.

It was a hungry kind of look.

"Sherlock Holmes. I think Lestrade will have told you about me." Sherlock said, not noticing the spark in the man's eyes.

An increasingly hostile feeling John however did. _That's the last thing I need._ He thought moodily. _Getting jealous because some policeman gave Sherlock a look._

"Oh yes. He did say. It's an absolute _pleasure_ to meet you." drawled the man, holding out a hand.

Sherlock sniffed, taking the hand, and wiping it on his coat afterwards, a gesture the man didn't fail to notice.

"I'm detective inspector Furrow." he said, giving Sherlock a smile.

"This is John. My friend." Sherlock replied, tightening his grip on John for the briefest moment.

John smiled at Furrow testily, jealousy still turning a hole in his stomach.

They entered the house, Sherlock immediately releasing John's wrist, and staring round the living room. It took him seconds to drop onto his knees, sniffing the carpet. Furrow, with a purposeful glance at John, sauntered over to him, and knelt beside him, resting an 'unobtrusive' hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck.

The pale detective flinched, but apparently subconsciously as he didn't stir from his positioned, raking the carpet gently with his long spindly fingers.

He muttered something, and Furrow leaned closer so that his breath must be tickling Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock jumped to his feet, pacing around with a frown, though not one induced from Furrow's outrageous behaviour.

John gritted his teeth, trying not to let his face betray his emotions. He'd lasted three weeks without letting Sherlock know, and he wasn't about to fail now because he was jealous.

As he had noted earlier, Sherlock wasn't interested in that kind of thing, and detective inspector Furrow wasn't going to change that.

Ten agonising minutes later of watching Furrow constantly 'accidentally' touch Sherlock, and his friend paying no heed, John went into the garden to wait. He didn't want to punch Furrow's face in. It would be a bit of a give away.

He watched the forensics scientists poke around in the grass for five minutes, before feeling calm enough to re enter the house. He heard talking in the kitchen, and headed slowly along, composing his face.

He didn't compose it enough for what he found. Furrow had backed Sherlock into a corner, and was kissing him.

Kissing Sherlock.

The younger detective was looking slightly panicky, his grey eyes fluttering. John snarled, stalking over and shoving Furrow off his friend. Sherlock immediately staggered back, clutching his chest and wheezing, and Furrow glared at John.

"How _dare_ you." he snarled, curling his fists into balls.

Furrow sneered. Not turning, John glanced at Sherlock, who seemed to have recovered himself slightly. The bastard had overpowered Sherlock because of his ribs. It would only take a hard shove to immobilise Sherlock. John cast Furrow a death glare.

"I will be talking to Lestrade about this." he snapped.

"He had it coming. And he wanted it." Furrow growled.

John was about to punch Furrows nose in, when Sherlock lightly touched his shoulder. Just a little touch, and John dropped his hand with a regretful snarl.

"It was a suicide, John." Sherlock announced from behind him.

John would have rolled his eyes if he wasn't so angry. Trust Sherlock, of all people to be totally unaware of the situation.

"Let's go." he snapped, hauling Sherlock from the room.

He would get him home, check those ribs, having a calming cup of tea, and call Lestrade. Sherlock happily babbled about how he knew it was suicide on the taxi ride him, John barely paying any attention.

They finally arrived at the flat, the cabbie apparently endlessly relieved to be rid of them. Then John marched Sherlock upstairs and sat him down. He was making tea, when he felt hands slid round his waist, pinning him to Sherlock's chest.

It was all John could do to actually breath as he felt Sherlock's breath on his ear.

"Are you alright John?" he asked, voice low and soft, seductive even.

"Y-yes." John squeaked, shakily putting some tea bags into the mugs.

Sherlock's grip tightened, and John felt a strand of his curly hair brush his neck. It sent a shiver down his back. If Sherlock didn't let go soon, he was going to fall apart.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, suddenly stepping back, and pulling John round to face him by his good shoulder.

John didn't trust his voice, so just nodded, refusing to meet those grey eyes. Sherlock wasn't having that though, and took his chin, tilting it up so John had no choice.

His eyes were slightly narrowed in concern, the grey depths displaying many different emotions. Each of them proclaiming the fact Sherlock didn't care was a lie. John swallowed nervously, unclogging his blocked throat.

"I'm fine, Sherlock." he said uneasily.

Sherlock stared into his eyes, shifting oh-so slightly. His eyes dropped for a second, before rising to meet John's again, some kind of internal battle making them flutter.

This was it. Sherlock must realise. John closed his eyes, and waited for the exclamation of horror which would surely follow Sherlock's realisation.

What actually happened was quite different.

He felt Sherlock's arms wind round his waist, drawing him close, and after a heart beat, Sherlock's lips met his.

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><p><strong>There! Next chapter, I'll get things sorted out :p Reviews are superb and fabulous :D I love them, and they really motivate me to keep going.<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

**Okay then (I always seem to start with that :P) I found this chapter slightly awkward to write, especially the kissing as I have little experience in that department. Sherlock is a little angsty at the end, but don't despair.**

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><p>He'd known as soon as they stepped into the crime scene that John wasn't happy. It was obviously in the stiffening of his posture. He quickly located the cause of trouble to detective inspector Furrow, but it wasn't until they were home that he realised what was going on in John's mind.<p>

The kiss had made him angry. It was a thing that Sherlock hadn't thought twice about. No long term harm had been done, and he would talk to Lestrade about it. But John felt differently.

And as he was making a cup of tea, Sherlock realised it. He was jealous.

This realisation sent a hundred thousand _million _thoughts and hopes through his mind. Would it mean that John really cared? Did this mean it would be okay to seduce him? He'd spent three agonising weeks watching John go out with Suzie. Forcing himself not to send texts, or enter John's personal bubble.

But suddenly there was hope.

And on the spur of the moment, he knew what he had to do. He got up, and silently walked up behind John, snaking his arms round his waist and feeling the doctor jump in surprise, and his breathing suddenly grow heavier.

"Are you alright John?" he asked quietly

"Y-yes." John whispered back shakily.

Sherlock tightened his grip, relishing the feel of John's warm body pressed against his. Then he turned him round, and stared into his face, though John refused to meet his eyes. A good sign, surely.

"Are you sure?"

John nodded uncomfortably. Sherlock gently took his chin in spindly fingers, and raised it. John's eyes were fearful, but also hopeful.

"I'm fine, Sherlock." he said, in what he obviously hoped was a steady voice.

Sherlock felt himself struggle for a moment. What should he do? Then he drew a deep breath, and pulled John to his chest, pausing a moment to give John time to move, and then fitting his lips to John's.

It was glorious. Perfect.

John's heart was thudding against his chest, but after a few moments he tilted his head, and carefully responded, as if fearful he might break something.

It was seven seconds at most, but for Sherlock it felt like an eternity. He pressed slightly harder against John's lips for a moment, before drawing away, John grabbing the kitchen counter as they surveyed each other, breathing a little faster than they should be.

After two milliseconds, Sherlock was sure his brain had just melted. _What on earth was I thinking? John doesn't want this._ He internally snarled.

A moment of weakness, and he had ruined in friendship.

"Sherlock." John breathed, forcing the detective to look at him.

"I'm so sorry John..." Sherlock replied, waiting fearfully for the explosion.

He'd messed up big time. What had happened to being honourable and noble, letting John do what he wanted?

He backed away, wincing.

"No, Sherlock..." John whispered desperately, stepping forward and catching Sherlock's hand.

The stood in that position for aeons, Sherlock absently noting how truly beautiful John's eyes were. Then he leaned in, hesitating as his lips brushed against John's.

He could feel John's shaky breath on his cheek as he closed the distance for a chaste, but tender kiss. Then they parted again, and both swallowed.

"W-was that an experime-"

"No. No it wasn't." Sherlock hastily answered.

John nodded uneasily, and the silence stretched on for a while longer.

It as impossibly awkward, and for sixth time in his life, Sherlock didn't know what to say.

"I think we need to talk." John said finally.

Sherlock nodded his agreement. John obviously knew about all the relationship norms. And if talking was something people did before entering a relationship, he was more than happy to do so. At least, he hoped that was what they were going to be talking about.

They hurried into the living room, sitting side-by-side on the sofa, Sherlock uncertainly taking John's hand and briefly squeezing it. He wasn't quite sure why, but it seemed the right thing to do.

"What was that Sherlock?" John asked, the tones of his voice expressing so many different emotions.

Each one mirrored in Sherlock's heart.

"I-I... It was what I wanted to do." he said, refusing to look at John.

"Because...?"

"Because I love you, John." he whispered, the word sounding wrong in his mouth.

It was true. It had been for over fourteen torturous months. Months of watching John date other people. Wishing to kiss him, and do more besides.

John looked beyond stunned, and squeezed Sherlock's hand, biting his lips anxiously.

"Really?"

"Yes. Always."

John turned to look at him, eyes brimming with a few tears. He hastily wiped them away, and sniffed.

"I never..." he croaked, trailing off.

There was an agonising beat of silence. Sherlock glanced anxiously at John. He could almost hear the clogs turning in his mind.

"Look, Sherlock. My feelings for you are deeper than friendship. And if you feel the same then..."

"You'll try it?" Sherlock asked, trying to calm his violently beating heart.

"Y-yes. I will. Honest to god, I want nobody except you." John replied in a slightly broken whisper.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, and craned his neck round to gently brush John's lips with his own.

"Then John, I give you my heart."

The words hung in the air between them, and Sherlock began to fear he'd said something wrong. He had no experience in anything remotely romantic. And he _couldn't_ mess this up. And, it was to late to pull out. He'd given John his heart, and he had to the power to break it at any moment.

It was almost to scary to process.

John finally responded, wrapping his arms round Sherlock's neck, and pulling him so they were flush again each other at an awkward angle, which made his rib throb slightly. Then he drew back, and stared into Sherlock's eyes.

And his gentle brown iris' displayed an emotion Sherlock had never, in his whole life seen directed at him. Love.

It was to much. He thought his brain was going to explode with the overload of feelings, emotions and senses. He drew a shaky breath, and John almost awkwardly stroked his arm.

"Alright?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, getting to his feet and striding round the room in an attempt to clear his head. What _had _John to him?

"You've never done anything lik- John started.

"No, never." Sherlock whispered, almost feeling embarrassed.

He knew nothing about anything in this area. He had a rudimentary skill in kissing. But had never gone past that point, and the last time he'd actually kissed before recently was six years ago. And as for relationships, and the step after kissing... No way.

John nodded, and patted the spot beside him. He seemed to be back in control again. Cautiously, Sherlock sat beside him, and immediately John snaked an arm round his waist, making him jump, before leaning into John's shoulder. It felt... nice just to sit there.

"We'll take it as slowly as you want. There's no rush." John said, burying his fingers in Sherlock's coat.

Did he want to take it slowly? Probably. He knew about the mechanics of... sexual intercourses. And the idea of trusting somebody so much was frightening.

And he hated loosing control. For a single second. And with these romantic things, control was one thing you did not have. He shivered slightly, wondering if making the leap had been a good idea.

"Are you alright?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, and cautiously turned to face him. They stared at each other, Sherlock aware his pulse had probably risen considerably. He swallowed, and slowly, nervously leaned in. John met him halfway, and their lips met seriously for the first time.

It was leisurely, gentle and tender. John led, twisting round even more, and cupping Sherlock's cheek with one hand, smoothing the skin under his ear with a finger, while the other buried itself in his messy hair.

Sherlock cautiously wrapped his arms round John's chest, pulling them closer together, and sighing happily into the kiss. It felt right. It felt good. And for the time being, he felt in control, being almost a head taller than John, it meant he was pushing down slightly against his doctor. His John.

He got a surprise when John's tongue very gently stroked his bottom lip, making him gasp into the kiss, and squirm slightly as John continued to slide his tongue from side to side. He'd never had that done to him.

And it was surprisingly pleasant.

After a few moments of this treatment, he cautiously opened his lips, and touched John's upper lip, quickly withdrawing his tongue for fear of doing it wrong. John's grip on his hair tightened, and he took it as a good sign. He tried again, lingering for a little longer.

While he was tentatively tracing John's lip, his partner (could he be called that yet?) slipped his own tongue into Sherlock's mouth, running it along the inside of his lips.

Sherlock moaned into John's mouth before he could stop himself, feeling John's lips quirk briefly into a smile against his.

John did it twice more, Sherlock feeling shivers trail up and down his spine before he pulled away, panting slightly.

"Enough." he breathed shakily.

John nodded, disentangling his fingers from Sherlock's hair, and giving him a brief feather light kiss, before standing. He silently walked into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to stretch out and think.

He was half regretting his decision.

How could John ever love him? He was a freak, and borderline madman. There were very few likeable qualities about him, let alone loveable. And if this failed, he'd lost John forever. Was it really worth the risk? That kiss had been exquisite, but John was more important. He was more important that anything.

His... flatmate - that would do until he figured out what John was - walked back in, taking in Sherlock's forlorn expression. He set down his cup of tea, and knelt down beside him.

"What's wrong?" he asked, fear clouding his eyes.

John wanted this. But was he ready?

"I'm scared John." he said simply, closing his eyes.

John hesitated, cautiously reaching out and stroking his cheek. It was such a simple gesture, but it calmed Sherlock's racing heart slightly.

"It'll work, Sherlock. We'll make it work." he said, somehow sensing the detective's thoughts.

"How do you know? I can't loose you, John." Sherlock replied, opening his eyes and meeting John's.

They stared at each other, then John kissed his forehead.

"You won't loose me." he said.

Sherlock sighed softly. John removed his lips for Sherlock's forehead, and tenderly brushed them against Sherlock's.

"I promise." he breathed into their joined mouth.

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><p><strong>Well, I hope that wasn't unbearably awful, cheesy, awkward and fluffy! I'm pretty nervous about this chapter, so any encouragement is good. I didn't particularly want to have an 'I love you' so early, but I felt it was right, and we've still got John to look forward to.<strong>

** And if I get enough reviews, I'll have the next one up tomorrow.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Right. I'm sorry for the short length of this chapter. But as I want to keep POV's inside chapters, its necessary.**

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><p>John could understand one hundred percent what was going through Sherlock's head.<p>

But that didn't mean he wasn't worried. If Sherlock changed his mind now... He didn't know what he'd do, and getting their friendship back to what it was would be impossible.

So he sat in his chair, reading his book (the same one he'd been reading at hospital, it wasn't very interesting) and watched Sherlock out the corner of his eye.

The consulting detective had turned his back, and was stretched out lengthways, not moving a muscle.

He still had an hour until he had to go and meet Suzie, and break it up. Even if Sherlock decided he just couldn't bring himself to let go from his sociopath persona, he didn't want to make Suzie suffer. He didn't love her, and never would.

It was about an hour later that Sherlock got up, just as John was thinking about leaving for his 'date', eyeing him in a calculating manner. John set down his book, and stared back at him.

"Don't look so worried John." Sherlock murmured, flitting over, so he was towering over the seated man.

John swallowed.

"You've decided?" he asked.

"There was never anything to decide." Sherlock corrected softly, leaning down and kissing his upturned face.

John was sure his heart just burst for joy. He gently placed a hand on Sherlock's back, and another on the nape of his neck, pressing down slightly and deepening the kiss.

Sherlock was the the one to pull away, coughing nervously, and rather endearingly. He was almost adorably shy.

"I need to go. Talk to Lestrade." he said.

John nodded, glancing at his own watch.

"Me too." he said.

He stood, brushing against Sherlock as he passed, and feeling the contact burn his arm. Sherlock followed him down the stairs, not actually touching, but only a hairsbreadth away from doing so. They stood on the street together for a moment, before Sherlock smiled one of those smiles, and bounded off to find a cab. John walked slowly down the street, the excitement of being accepted by Sherlock dimming in the prospect of what he had to do.

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><p>Suzie was already seated when he arrived at the restaurant, her face brightening when she saw him, but then loosing the happy spark when she took in his face. He sat down opposite her, and sighed heavily. He seemed to be breaking a lot of hearts at the moment. And all for one man.<p>

"Suzie." he greeted softly.

"What's wrong, John?" Suzie asked nervously.

John closed his eyes and sighed. He almost wished Sherlock was with him now. It would make things easier. But the case was more important. And he better talk to Lestrade about that Furrow.

"Suzie, look, I'm not going to beat around the bush. I can't go out with you any more." he said simply, closing his eyes so he didn't have to see her grief stricken face.

"W-why?" she asked.

He opened his eyes to meet her sad brown ones. Brown... Nothing like Sherlock's silver.

"I don't deserve you. You are, a brilliant women. You're kind, sweet, very intelligent, and lovely. But..." he halted, shrugging.

Suzie nodded, sucking her lips and drawing a deep breath. She smiled at him through watery eyes.

"So, who is it?" she asked.

"Wha... I never said anything-"

"It's obvious, John. Why else would you break up now? You've been distracted for weeks, I suppose I knew it was coming." she sighed.

John bit his lip.

"Sherlock." he whispered finally.

Suzie nodded.

"Since we met?"

"No! Since this afternoon... But, it was his broken rib that made me realise..."

Suzie nodded, and patted his hand.

"I'm happy for you. He obviously loves you." she said.

"Thanks." he muttered, squeezing his hand in return.

"No problem." she replied, and they sat in silence for a while.

"Look, I know you probably hate me, but do you fancy going out as friends later?" John asked hesitantly.

He genuinely liked Suzie. And going out once in a while would be nice.

"Oh... Alright. What about next Wednesday?" she asked.

A weeks time. That should be alright...

"The lion at six?"

Suzie nodded, and they rose.

"I should get back..." he said, flushing.

Suzie nodded, and he kissed her cheek.

"I am truly sorry." he said.

She shrugged, and they made their way out, parting ways outside.

John was immensely relived that that was out the way. No there was nothing to worry about except spending time with Sherlock. He could finally relax. Get to know this new side of Sherlock, and perhaps the physical side of him too...

His phone bleeped, and he pulled it out, expecting a jealous text from Sherlock. He was jealous before they were in a relationship, what would he be like when they were in one?

__Get in the car, John - M__

A black car pulled up beside him, and the door opened.

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><p><strong>Okay, next chapter hopefully will be up tomorrow morning, but maybe if you guys give some encouragement, today :p Reviews are epical!<strong>


	14. Chapter 14

**Right then. I'm sorry I didn't get this up last night. We have an insecure Sherlock in this chapter. I've decided to make him quite vulnerable and unsure at first. Enjoy!**

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><p>Sherlock was brief and to the point with Lestrade, informing him of his idiocy, and his men's imbecility, and how brilliant he was. And then, as an after thought, about Furrow. He only mentioned it because of John. Lestrade took everything well, and half an hour later, he was hailing a cab.<p>

He had wanted to tell Lestrade about his new found happiness. A queer notion, especially as Lestrade wasn't really even his friend. But something about the all consuming joy he was in made him want to shout it out the the world.

But he didn't know how John would feel about things, so said nothing instead. Lestrade had been fairly acute though, commenting that he seemed 'smugger than normal'. Despite putting it in such terms, he could tell Lestrade was pleased.

Then he headed back home. John wasn't back when he got back, and after a flash of worry, which he quickly quelled, he headed into the kitchen, determining to to that experiment to do with aluminium and acid. The actual experiment proved interesting, though the results were less satisfying.

He was sure John would notice the hole in the table.

He then found it had been forty seven minutes since John left, and that annoying flash of worry hit him. Where was John? Had he been kidnapped by Suzie?

He didn't like to think the two other alternatives.

But after fifteen minutes of staring out he window, he knew something must have happened. He paced round the room, trying to figure out what had happened.

Had John stayed with Suzie?

That was to terrible to think about. What if he had decided he didn't want Sherlock any more? What if he was with that woman in more than one way?

The thought very nearly drove Sherlock up the wall. He trusted John. But there was always the chance she had kidnapped him.

Though that didn't seem likely.

He could have been kidnapped by somebody else though. Moriarty was still at large, though nobody had heard a peep out of him for quite some time. Maybe he'd finally decided to spring when Sherlock was at his most vulnerable.

An even larger chink in his armour had been made.

John could have stopped of for some milk. He ripped his phone from his pocket, and sent a text.

__John? -SH__

No reply.

He sent another text.

__Please. I'm worried - SH__

If anything made John respond, that would be it. It soon became apparent however that no reply was forthcoming. It had been and hour and a half since he had seen John.

Where was he?

Was he alright?

Sherlock finally stopped pacing, and galloped down the stairs, calling for Mrs. Hudson. John might have told her something. The old woman trotted from her quarters, a faintly worried and exasperated expression on her kindly face.

"Sherlock dear, can't you keep it down?" she asked.

"No. Where's John?" Sherlock asked urgently.

"I've don't know dear, how should I?" she sighed.

"Hmm." was all she got in respond as Sherlock spun on his heel and ran back up the stairs.

Was this going to be a normal occurrence? Was it normal for your partner to leave you for an hour and a half, and give no sign they were alive? Or did couples live in continual fear for one another's lives?

He threw himself on the sofa, twisting his hands into the fabric and groaning. This was _insufferable_. He was going mad.

And if John wasn't alright... If he were dead, or worse, then what?

He wouldn't be able to go one. Simple as that. He would become a shell, an empty shell with no soul, and no heart.

And he very much doubted Mycroft would let him commit suicide. It would be just like him to refuse to let him die. That's the sort of thing Mycroft did.

Whe- if John returned, he would be having strong words with Mycroft about John's level of security. Nothing could happen to him. Nothing. And there were advantages to having a brother who controlled England. Maybe Wales and Scotland too, who knew.

And it was about time Mycroft did something for him.

He waited five more minutes, his brain running in loops as he tried to calm himself, but only becoming more and more frantic. He even considered texting Mycroft. Maybe he knew where John was?

He was staring out the window, when he phone buzzed with a text. He almost ripped his shirt pulling it out so quickly.

__Sorry, be back soon.__

That was it. Four words, which calmed him into sitting down. John was alright. But why hadn't he replied to that text sooner? Surely it had been desperate enough?

If John was planning to do this kind of thing regularly he was going to loose even more weight.

But he still felt nervous about John's return. Because if the time had been spent with that woman...

He didn't doubt John's loyalty, but all the same, the possessive, jealous thoughts niggled at his brain, worming away until he was on his feet, pacing again.

Finally he heard John's footsteps on the stairs, and then on the landing. He waited with baited breath as John came through the door.

It only took him a millisecond to feel guilty for his thoughts in infidelity.

"Oh John, I was so worried." he breathed, barely aware of the words as he stepped across the room.

He'd probably he embarrassed latter for giving in to such weakness, but all that mattered at that moment was the fact he could hold John against his chest again.

But John's posture wasn't right at all, and he pulled away to stare into his face, frowning as he took in the nervous features.

"What?" he asked.

John smiled thinly.

"No secrets from you." he muttered, pushing past him and sitting down.

Sherlock followed, trying to suppress the hurt he felt.

"What happened John?" he asked, trying to use his deduction powers to find out, but he couldn't seem to spot anything seriously off.

And then he saw it. A tiny mark on John's jumper sleeve.

__Mycroft.__

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><p><strong>There! Speculations on what you think Mycroft said to John would be interesting, but its not as serious as I've made out. Next chapter, soonish. Review! :D<strong>


	15. Chapter 15

**Okay, sorry for the delay. But I'm sure you all had the logging in problem. Its another short chapter, again.**

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><p>John reluctantly climbed into the sleek car, and was whisked away. It was one of those times when he should have expected the appearance of the older brother, but hadn't.<p>

Anthea gave him a friendly enough greeting, but he ignored her. _Hadn't Mycroft meddled enough?_

True, he wasn't complaining. Without him he would probably be in an marriage which would turn sour, but still... That was besides the point.

They arrived at one of those abandoned warehouses Mycroft favoured. John got out, and stalked over to the older brother, crossing his arms.

"Shall we sit?" Mycroft asked politely.

Reluctantly, John did so, Mycroft sitting opposite him. He stared coldly at the Holmes brother, refusing to speak until Mycroft did. Eventually he caught on, and cleared his throat.

"I believe you know why you're here?"

John opted for playing dumb.

"No." he said shortly.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"It's due to your new romantic involvement with my brother." he said.

John scowled. Couldn't the man stop interfering? Was ingrained into his DNA?

"Why can't you bloody leave him alone and let him be happy?" he demanded angrily.

"Ah, you see-"

"I don't think it's any of your business who your brother sees, and who he doesn't. And it's certainly none of you business what his friends are up to." John snapped.

Mycroft sighed in a long suffering way.

"John, I came to give you words of warning, and advice. I wouldn't dream of splitting you up with Sherlock." he said innocently.

John didn't believe a word of it.

"All I ask is that you listen." he said.

John nodded reluctantly, and leant back, tapping his foot impatiently. Mycroft was about to start, when the mobile in his pocket gave an angry buzz. He made to get it, but Mycroft held up his hand.

"My dear brother. Ignore it." he said.

John sighed and waited.

"My brother is a self proclaimed sociopath. He has never cared for anybody, not even his own mother. I was close with him when we were young. He was always different, and I tried to help. But I was the golden child, and he got resentful. And my interfering in his affairs, mainly his drugs, sealed his hatred." Mycroft began, rather pompously.

"He has never cared for somebody on the level he cares for you. So I warn you, be careful. He knows nothing about feelings. His feelings could be a figment of his bored imagination. They could fade one morning, and he would kick you onto the streets. But they could be real. He could really love you. And that is by far much more dangerous.

"If he loves you, then you have more power over him that anybody. Anybody. You could do worse to him in a second than Moriarty could in a lifetime. You hold a power beyond imagining. So don't abuse it. I promise, that if you ever, ever do anything to hurt Sherlock, I will kill you. In the most painful way possible."

John shifted a little uneasily. He was used to the 'If you hurt her, I'll hurt you' speech. But he'd never gotten the 'I'll kill you in the most painful possible way if you do anything to him' speech. It was a little more worrying. Especially as it was Mycroft bloody Holmes giving it. His phone bleeped again, but Mycroft shook his head.

"My brother's never been attracted to the idea of a relationship. He knows nothing about love. He will make mistakes. Make sure you don't." Mycroft said, drawing his brows together.

John nodded.

"And a few final words of advice. Remember my brother can get easily distracted. He could loose interest. Wait before taking the final steps with him. However anxious I am for you not to destroy him, I am equally concerned for you." Mycroft.

That was rather unsettling, but true. Sherlock could be professing his love one moment, and hating him the next. The danger of Sherlock. So wild, so unpredictable. And so _very_ good at deceiving people.

Were his feelings even real? Was he aware if they weren't real? Was he fooling John for an experiment? Would they vanish as Mycroft feared?

So many questions, and none would get answered until it was too late.

"Thank you." he muttered.

Mycroft nodded, giving a thin lipped smile.

"I'll be in touch, John."

"Right." he answered, his voice sounding a little odd.

He got up, and moved slowly to the car, getting in and staring out the window as he was whisked away from the warehouse, leaving the older brother alone. He tried to push everything from his mind. Sherlock had been hounding him for over thirteen months. That showed a commitment that was rare in him.

He pulled his phone out, and found the two texts. The second making his heart swell with pride, and also easing his mind slightly.

He sent a reply, and fifteen minutes later was dropped off outside 221b. He hurried up the stairs, and walked into the flat.

Sherlock bounded over immediately, apparently relieved beyond belief.

"Oh John, I was so worried." he said, enfolding John in his long arms and sighing.

John couldn't help but wonder if the words were real or not.

"What?" Sherlock asked, as if he'd read his mind.

John smiled nervously. He needed to think for a little. He wasn't backing out, definitely not, but he just needed to... prepare himself for the worst? Convince himself Sherlock loved him?

"No secrets from you." he said, walking past the detective and sitting down.

"What happened John?" Sherlock asked, sounding hurt.

John sighed.

"Mycroft! What did he say?" Sherlock demanded after a moment, appearing in his line of sight, and kneeling in front of him.

John gazed into Sherlock's eyes. Surely Sherlock couldn't fake such devotion?

"Nothing, just the usual drivel." he murmured, cupping Sherlock's face and kissing him.

Sherlock wound his arms round his waist again, it seemed to be his preferred position, and kissed him back. It was a few moments later that John pulled away, wrinkling his nose.

"What is that smell?" he asked.

Sherlock guiltily avoided his gaze.

"Melted aluminium?" he suggested uneasily.

"Melted alumini- What, how did you melt it?"

"Acid."

John growled angrily, shaking his head.

"You're insufferable." he said, kissing Sherlock's nose.

Sherlock beamed, as if it were a compliment, or maybe it was the sign of affection John had given him.

John, in that moment, staring into Sherlock's beautiful eyes knew he couldn't doubt him. Their lips sealed together, and everything else faded away until there was just Sherlock.

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><p><strong>Now, I need everybody's help :p This could be the end of the story, if you wanted it to be. But, if people want me to continue, I will, but things will get a little past the kissing stage, though I'm not sure how far exactly. So, opinions please! <strong>


	16. Chapter 16

**Okay, sorry for the delay. I've been thinking over, and I've got a plan for another five or so chapters. I'm not going to take the relationship past what I've just written, though the kissing is a bit more heated than before.**

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><p>Sherlock knew something wasn't quite right with John. He still looked a little uneasy. He spent the evening curled on the sofa, watching John write his blog (though what he was writing who knew) and trying to figure out what Mycroft had said.<p>

John didn't seem to be regretting his decision, just a little nervous. Whatever Mycroft had said, it hadn't dissuaded John from becoming romantically attached to him.

So he decided to only break Mycroft's nose instead of killing him.

They ate dinner on the sofa, watching TV. John moved from his chair onto the sofa, and they sat side by side, Sherlock occasionally making comments about the idiocy of the detective who was investigating. John seemed fixated by these murder 'mystery' things. Though where the mystery part came in he didn't know.

But just sitting on the sofa with John felt right, so right.

Once they had finished dinner, or rather John had, Sherlock stretched out, resting his head on John's lap. John complained about it for a bit, before becoming engrossed in the murder 'mystery', and absently stroking his cheek.

Once the program had finished, John switched it off, and shooed Sherlock of his lap. They stared at each other for a moment, before John captured his lips.

He brought one hand up to the nape of Sherlock's neck, the other burying itself in his curly hair. Sherlock moaned into the kiss as John gently tugged his hair. He cautiously wound his arms round John's chest, pulling him into a deeper kiss. He felt that putting his hands on John's back or waist left little room for error.

And error was what he was mortally afraid of.

John slipped his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, lazily tracing the insides of his mouth. Some moments later he pulled away, and kissed Sherlock's nose. Sherlock couldn't help but smile. The simple act made him somehow feel loved. Really loved.

"I'm going to bed." he said, gazing at Sherlock with treble the normal awe.

"John... I..." Sherlock hesitated, then shook his head.

John cocked his head.

"What?"

"Nothing, it can wait." Sherlock said easily, distracting him with a kiss.

John eventually pulled away. It seemed the kiss would be a useful tool in the future.

"I'm tired Sherlock." he said, standing.

Sherlock nodded, and rolled into a horizontal position, watching John stride across the room. He disappeared from sight, and Sherlock sighed, wriggling onto his back.

He felt helpless.

He had no data on this kind of situation, and it was unsettling. He wished he knew more, simply because he was worried about messing up. Because the he would loose John. And that was... It couldn't happen.

He would be destroyed if it did.

He would let John take the lead in most of these things. Because he knew nothing, whereas John did seem to. Of course he did, the amount of relationships John had been in, over the few years he'd known him. So who knew how many he had been in before.

He needed to ask some questions though. Did John want their relationship to be open, or secret? He didn't mind either way, except for the fact women would think John was still available. He had also thought it normal for couples to sleep in the same bed. But John hadn't make any allusions to it just then, so he assumed it wasn't the case.

He curled up, and stared at the ceiling, thoughts whizzing round his head.

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><p>He was woken by John softly murmuring his name and stroking his cheek. Sherlock groggily sat up, stretching his aching arms. He reminded himself not to drop asleep on the sofa again.<p>

"Want some toast?" John asked, a mug of coffee grasped in his hand.

He hadn't slept well. Nightmares, or thoughts.

"Good morning to you too." Sherlock muttered, standing and hesitating before wrapping his arms round John and breathing in his shampoo.

It was such a familiar smell. It smelt of home.

"Who knew you were so cuddly." John chuckled, wriggling away and trotting into the kitchen.

Sherlock cautiously followed him, watching him hurry round the kitchen, making some breakfast. Eventually John stopped, and turned to face Sherlock, bowl of cereal in his hand.

"What?" he asked.

Sherlock pursed his lips, swallowing a little uneasily.

"I wanted... to talk." he said eventually.

He felt awkward and out of his depth. John's look softened, and he walked over, sitting down at the table, which was barely usable due to the clutter on it, and gesturing for Sherlock to do the same.

"So?" he asked, starting on the cornflakes.

Sherlock hesitated, almost feeling nervous.

"What are we in, John?" he asked.

That seemed at a good point to start.

"In?"

Sherlock sighed.

"What sort of relationship?"

"Oh... Well I don't know. A romantic relationship, if that's what you still want?" John looked suddenly doubtful, setting his spoon down.

"I still want it. But... I don't know anything about this kind of 'stuff'." Sherlock said, frowning.

"We'll only take this as far as you want, Sherlock." John assured him.

Sherlock was glad for that promise. He was pathetically and irrationally afraid of the whole control loss 'thing'.

"And what about everybody else?"

John seemed to realise what he was trying to get at this time, and hesitated.

"I don't... For now, can we not tell? I want you to be sure you want this." John said finally.

Sherlock shrugged. Secrecy, a word which John had carefully avoided using, was sometimes more exciting than normal.

"Of course." he said.

John nodded, looking relieved. He looked back to his slightly soggy cornflakes. Sherlock watched his for a while, absently thinking how nice John actually looked in that particular jumper, before correcting himself.

He couldn't allow his brain to get clogged up with such thoughts.

But all the same, John _did_ look nice. It was a simple fact.

He got up, and quickly got changed, before hurrying back into the sitting room. Thankfully John had finished his cereal. They nervously stared at each other, before John huffed, and stalked over planting a firm kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"What do you want to do today?" he asked, taking Sherlock's hands and looking up at him.

Sherlock hesitated, a very faint blush touching his cheeks.

"Snog?" he said cautiously.

The word felt somehow vulgar. John didn't seem to think so however, a small smile springing to his lips.

"Of course, if that's what you want." he whispered softly.

Sherlock couldn't help the slight shiver that ran along his spine. John thankfully didn't seem to notice, and pulled Sherlock into a kiss, his hands winding their way into his hair.

It was more desperate than the sweet, water testing kisses of the day before. John barely gave Sherlock two seconds before he gently pushed his tongue against his lips. The unfamiliar, yet pleasurable sensation made Sherlock shiver again, John pulling him into a deep kiss with the grip he had of his hair.

He pressed his tongue against Sherlock's closed lips again, and this time he parted them, allowing John to trace the insides of his mouth. When their tongue's briefly touched, Sherlock couldn't repress the groan that rumbled against their lips.

John seemed to realise what he'd liked, and ran his tongue against the tip of Sherlock's, causing them both to break apart with breathy moans of appreciation.

Sherlock didn't know if it was normal to have this kind of reaction, and he didn't care. He pressed his lips back to John's, before they'd fully gotten their breath back.

So many feelings were running through his suddenly hyper aware body, and he felt his cautiousness drop away a little, and moved one hand from John's hip to the nape of his neck, considering this a fairly big step in itself.

John didn't give any sign that he'd noticed or cared, instead opening his mouth, and mashing it with almost bruising force against Sherlock's.

He eventually got the hint, and very nervously, all the pleasure the situation was bringing him dropping for a second, dipped his tongue into John's mouth. He took it as a good sign as John pulled him further down, crushing their lips together even more.

But before he could go any further with his experiments on what he liked, John took the next step.

He ran his teeth along Sherlock's lower lip, drawing a shudder of surprise from the recipient.

"Like that?" John breathed, pulling away a hairsbreadth to mutter the words.

Before Sherlock could even answer, he tugged him back into the kiss. Sherlock was a little surprised by John's dominance in this matter. He knew very soon he would have to pull away and tell John that he couldn't take any more. That his virgin body couldn't handle it, and his brain didn't want to have to. Not yet, anyway.

John ran his teeth along Sherlock's lower lip again, nipping them slightly and making Sherlock half gasp, half groan.

"S-stop." he breathed, not daring to actually look at John as he pulled away.

What if he had failed? What if John decided he couldn't be in a relationship with somebody who knew nothing? Who was insecure about something as simple as kissing.

"Oh... Sherlock. That was incredible." John groaned, burying his face in Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock stood rather tensely, aware that if he moved, John might notice the rather large indicated of how much he had enjoyed the kissing session, or at least his body had. He still felt unsure about... everything. But, from John's choice words, it seemed he had enjoyed it.

"I'm sorry." John said softly.

Sherlock frowned. He certainly hadn't expected John to apologise. For what?

"Why?" he asked, aware that it was probably a stupid question.

"For getting carried away... It's just almost to much to process." John said, pulling away and gazing blissfully up at Sherlock, his lips red and slightly puffy.

Sherlock considered making a scathing comment about John's brain power, but was a little surprised to find himself reluctant to do so. So he just hugged him. Hugging was good. No need to worry while hugging.

"So, what do you really want to do today?" John asked, pulling away and standing on tiptoes so he could kiss his nose.

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><p><strong>Right then, I'm quite nervous about that scene, so any encouragement, or constructive criticism<strong>** would be great! Next chapter should be up by the weekend.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Okay, there's the next chapter. Its more fluffy angst, basically.**

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><p>The next few days were incredible for John. He hoped they were for Sherlock too, but it was hard to tell. The detective was quite flighty.<p>

He was happy to kiss, but that seemed to be about the maximum he could handle. Any touching in intimate places brought all activity to the end with Sherlock practically bolting from the room. After that happened twice, John silently promised that he wouldn't take a step until Sherlock did.

One of Sherlock's concerns seemed to be that he wasn't 'good' enough.

True, John had been finding trips to the bathroom necessary after a heated kissing session. But he didn't mind in the slightest. If Sherlock wasn't ready, so be it.

And just being able to cuddle up on the sofa on an evening and stroke Sherlock's hair was more than enough for him.

There were some things that the detective obviously wanted too, though John was having difficulty figuring some of them out. He liked the innocent touches and kisses which expressed love without becoming intimate. Cheek stroking, nose kissing, and hand holding. It was really quite adorable.

But there were some things John wasn't so sure about. Whenever he finally retired to bed, Sherlock always looked a little wistful, before curling down on the sofa. And then it was evident Sherlock found the secrecy in public annoying.

It was Tuesday, almost a week of being with Sherlock that John remembered his meeting with Suzie. He'd been swept away over the past six days. They had done one case, but as arranged, made no sign that they were together.

John knew Sherlock wasn't happy about it. And he wasn't either. But Mycroft's words echoed in his head. It seemed wise to avoid all the pitying looks he would receive if they went open, and then Sherlock ditched him.

Several unsuspecting women had dared come in a seven metre radius, and been well and truly warned off by an extremely jealous Sherlock. Possessive was one thing he certainly was.

They were sitting on the sofa together, Sherlock stretched out so his head was in John's lap, and staring vaguely up at the ceiling when John decided to broach the subject of their outing.

"Sherlock. I've arranged to meet Suzie tomorrow," Sherlock sat up, disrupting the bowl of crisps, his eyes flashing indignantly. "I wondered if you wanted to... come." he finished lamely.

Sherlock sighed in relief, and relaxed against John's legs again, presumably thinking the offer over.

"Alright." he said finally, smirking slightly.

John beamed back at him. It would be nice to go and eat out somewhere with Sherlock. They sat in silence except for the buzzing of an add break, until Sherlock sat up, staring intently at John until he looked at him.

Their eyes locked, and Sherlock swooped in for a kiss. He'd gotten extremely good over the week, but was still reluctant to actually initiate anything.

Their teeth clashed together for a moment, before John freed his hand from underneath him, and wound them round Sherlock's back. Then sudden weight caused Sherlock to be pulled forward, until he was lying on top of John.

John tightened his grip when he felt Sherlock tense, letting him part the kiss.

"Just try to relax." he whispered

Sherlock hesitated, his eyes unsure and lustful. Probably not a great combination. Then he wriggled into a more comfortable position, sending daggers of pleasure up John's body, and carefully pressed his soft lips against John's again.

He was careful not to let it get to heated this time. This was furthest Sherlock had gone, and he didn't want to scare him off again.

Sherlock's hands buried themselves in his hair, while John just rested his hands on the lower half of Sherlock's back. Despite all of Sherlock's body weight resting on him, it wasn't uncomfortable. The young man was so light. Too light in is opinion.

Sherlock deepened the kiss, showing off his new array of kissing skills and making John groan loudly as he dragged his teeth along his lips. He had also learnt that Sherlock needed to have dominance whenever the kiss grew passionate. Hopefully being on top of him would help give the feeling of being in control.

Sherlock gently nibbled on his bottom lip, his breath teasing John's cheek. From no experience, he was now able to render John helpless in seconds.

But that was just Sherlock. Brilliantly quick.

The kiss slowed from the more passionate affair it had been, to a gentle, romantic just-touching of the lips. Eventually stopping until neither were moving, just staring into each others eyes. The usually sharp, cold and fearless eyes of the detective were so much softer and more vulnerable after kissing.

Sherlock sighed, the rush of air mingling with John's breath. At that moment, everything was perfect. When he had kissed Sherlock back six days ago, he hadn't expected the find the detective so tender, so gentle. But it was moments like this that made his heart swell with a giddy sense of absolute, pure joy.

Sherlock seemed to be struggling with something, a slight frown bringing his eyebrows together, and his eyes loosing their focus for a moment.

"Sherlock?" John questioned him softly, pressing a very soft kiss to his lips.

Sherlock returned it for a brief moment.

"I love you." he whispered, his eyes telling John he didn't expect a reply.

John kissed him again. He didn't know whether he loved Sherlock or not. He would, at some point he definitely would. But saying the three words was a big, no, huge deal to him, and he certainly wasn't going to say them until he was absolutely, one hundred percent certain it was the truth.

Mycroft's words also had a small part to play in his hesitation. He didn't want to admit to himself that he loved a man who could be faking the emotions.

He didn't believe Mycroft's words. But a lingering worry kept the words in his mouth.

"You mean more to me than anything." he told Sherlock against their joined lips.

Sherlock would understand. This romantic side of him did. Most of the time, he was his usual self, which was perfect because he didn't want Sherlock to change. Not ever. But sometimes, when they were just cuddling, he would express his feelings, either through his eyes or his voice.

It was the first time he'd told John he loved him since their conversation. But now that he had spent a week with Sherlock, it meant more. Because it gave him the key to... well, Sherlock.. It told him it wasn't all going to disappear.

But it also made him imagine the future. A future with Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled slightly, his eyes lighting up in a way only cases and kisses could induce. They lay for a while longer, before John gently nosed Sherlock's cheek, and the detective carefully rolled off him.

Seeing as the program they had been watching before the snogging session was almost finished, John switched the TV off, and turned to Sherlock, and slight coil of uneasiness making his hesitate.

Sherlock gazed back at him, an unfathomable look on his face.

"I was... wondering if you wanted to er... come to bed." John muttered uncomfortably.

Sherlock blinked, surprise flashing over his marble features.

"I don't mean anything! Just, you know... Sleeping." John hastily added, trailing off lamely.

A smile cracked the detective's face, and he stood.

"I'd love to." he said, stepping over and taking John's hand.

A brief kiss later, and they were slipping under the sheets of John's bed, Sherlock immediately curling around him like a heated boa constricter, without actually constricting of course.

All John could think as he hazily drifted into sleep, the feel of Sherlock's arm wound round his waist was _why didn't I summon the courage earlier?_

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><p><strong>I hope it was okay. The next chapter will be along similar, aimless lines. But after that I'm planning on adding some kind of plot :p The next chapter will be up quicker if I get lots of reviews!<strong>


	18. Chapter 18

**Nothing interesting really, just relationship developing. I've got a pretty clear plan of what I'm going to do, so bear with me.**

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><p>Sherlock woke with a happy, bubbly feeling in his chest. The cause of it was soon obvious. John.<p>

They were entwined in a possibly embarrassing intimate position if anybody saw them.

Their legs tangled in a knot, and John nestled against his t-shirt clad chest, his hands gripping the fabric slightly, while Sherlock found his arm had actually gone stiff due to the fact John was lying on it as it coiled round his back and waist.

It felt so perfect. Intimate without becoming unsettling.

John's face was a blissfully relaxed sea of smooth skin, and very small smile giving him the appearance of perfect peace. His slightly sleep ruffled hair tickled Sherlock's upper arm in a pleasant kind of way.

He decided that sleeping with ones partner was definitely sixteen times better than he had hoped. And John looked happy enough.

From now on, sleeping looked like it was going to be on his list of top ten things. Or rather, waking up. He didn't know how pleasant the sleeping had been, because he hadn't been conscious the judge it. But the waking up was definitely worth of utter waste of time sleeping generally was.

He lay perfectly still, afraid of waking John if he moved. Not that he had any inclination to move for the moment, instead savouring the moment.

He felt they were slowly making progress. One step at a time, their relationship was growing and building, each becoming more relaxed with the other.

It was more than he could ever have hoped for.

"Sherlock." John mumbled sleepily, tightening his grip and nosing even closer.

He hardly dared breath as his watched John flutter between falling back to sleep, and waking up. The moment was like twilight, indescribable.

"Sherlock." he repeated, opening his eyes and smiling blissfully.

Sherlock tightened his grip slightly, a smile gracing his own lips.

"Good morning." he whispered, pressing a kiss into John's hair, and finding himself a little surprised by the action.

John's smile somehow grew even happier, and he pulled away a few inches so their eyes met. The moment hung in the air between them, before John shuffled up and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips.

"You're perfect." he said softly, voice a little croaky.

Sherlock lazily kissed him back, letting John explore his mouth with his tongue_. _Perfect... He was John's idea of perfection. That certainly... meant something.

"You're my everything." John continued, gently sucking on Sherlock's lip.

"Don't ever leave." Sherlock whispered, cutting of John's answer with a deep kiss.

Kissing in bed somehow felt different... It was like yesterday on the sofa, but somehow deeper. John pulled away, and kissed his nose, before sitting up, Sherlock giving a low whine at the loss of heat.

"I can't wait for this evening." John announced.

"Neither can I." Sherlock replied, watching John cross the room, hesitating in the doorway and turning to look round and Sherlock.

"I'll never leave you." he said, before disappearing.

Sherlock smiled slightly, though his insecure side knew it was a promise nobody could make. Anything could happen.

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><p>The morning passed easily. It was strange really how little changed. There was the odd kiss if their paths crossed, or a touch here and there. But most of the time they acted like nothing had changed.<p>

Sherlock experimented. John had rows with self service checkout machines.

Despite three week absence from work while Sherlock was still in the early stages of rib recovery, John had talked to Sarah about returning to three day shifts. She'd reluctantly agreed, aware that John was good doctor with one fault. Unreliability.

She's married six months earlier, so Sherlock felt fairly safe letting John go. Still, he didn't start work for another six days. Plenty of time for lazy mornings, and relaxed evenings.

Lunch was a quiet affair, Sherlock aware that this meeting with Suzie was looming like a black cloud on the very near horizon. He half hoped John would forget about it, but there wasn't much chance. He seemed determined to see the woman. A slightly worrying fact.

At half past five, John roused him from his position behind the microscope.

"Time to go!" he said cheerily.

Sherlock sighed very softly, and stood, silently grabbing his coat and scarf and wrapping himself up.

"Just try and be nice." John said as they watched the traffic of London streak past, looking for a cab.

"I can be nice." Sherlock murmured, breathing down John's neck.

The shorter man started in surprise, shooting Sherlock a reproachful look.

"Don't do that." he said.

Sherlock waved for a cab, and smiled, pressing a very quick kiss to the corner of John's lips. It was a risk, considering their secrecy contract. But Sherlock had the suspicion John was embarrassed about them, being together. He didn't want his friends to know.

"Whatever you want." he said, pulling John into the cab.

John was apparently to surprised half the journey to say anything, still loosely holding Sherlock's hand in his as they stared out their opposite windows. Their fingers stayed entwined the entire journey, the small contact sending a thousand daggers of heat up Sherlock's arm.

They finally arrived outside the Lion at almost exactly six, Sherlock paying the cab, and then following John out onto the curb. They stood pressed side by side, hands joining for a brief moment.

"Come on. Get this over with and then we can go home." John said.

"You arranged it." Sherlock pointed out, releasing his hand reluctantly and stuffing it in his pocket to avoid temptation.

They walked into the Lion, Sherlock spotting Suzie in a dingy corner about a minute before John. They finally walked over, Suzie smiling when she saw them.

"Hey." she said, giving John a warm hug, and Sherlock a cautious look.

"Hi, Suzie. Have a good week?" asked John, sitting down and pulling Sherlock down beside him.

"Yeah, pretty good. Just relaxing really." Suzie said.

John nodded, and they ordered a meal along with wine. There was a beat of silence as Suzie surveyed them both.

"How's it going, if you'll forgive me for being nosy." she said.

Sherlock met her gaze, but kept his mouth firmly closed. John was in charge of social situations.

"Well, thanks." said John, the expression of absolute adoration on his face as he glanced at Sherlock speaking volumes more.

Sherlock gently squeezed his hand under the table.

"Good." Suzie said, a half sad smile springing to her lips.

"I guess we've only just got our heads round it." John continued.

The wine arrived, momentarily stalling the conversation.

"You know, when I first saw you two, I thought you were together." Suzie commented.

_Brilliantly remembered._ Sherlock thought scathingly, not rolling his eyes for John's sake.

John frowned slightly.

"Sherlock had... Been aware of his feelings a long time before that. But I hadn't even begun to imagine there was something on my side. I knew Sherlock was going through stuff... But I thought it was just one of his experiments." John said, a slight fear flashing in his eyes for less than a millisecond.

But Sherlock noticed it, giving John's hand another squeeze as he tried to puzzle it out.

"Well, I think you two are perfect. Are you going open?" she asked hesitantly.

Her first statement had been said with utter truth, despite the slight bitterness she felt toward Sherlock. He realised with mixed feelings that Suzie was obviously a nice woman. He couldn't let her ensnare John again.

"Not yet... We want to be sure." John said uncomfortably.

"I understand. I haven't, and won't, tell a soul." Suzie promised.

John nodded his thanks, and the conversation drifted away from such matters, easily passing the time it took for he food to be served, and for it to be eaten. Once John and Suzie had finished, Sherlock only nibbling at John's, they talked for another half hour, before a increasingly fidgety Sherlock managed to tear John away.

The three of them stood outside the Lion, the street lit to an almost dusk like light, despite it being nearly nine o'clock.

"Goodbye, both of you." Suzie said, hugging John, and smiling at Sherlock.

"Bye, you'll call, won't you?" John demanded, latching onto Sherlock's hand unconsciously.

Sherlock smiled smugly to the world in general the this public show of affection.

Suzie promised, and then they hailed a cab, Sherlock relieved to finally be away from the woman. They spent the journey in silence, hands still locked together.

It seemed to take hours to arrive at Baker Street, but finally Sherlock was paying the cab, and pushing John up the stairs to their flat. Once inside the room, he took John in his arms and kissed him soundly.

"I've been wanting to that all evening." he muttered into John's hair.

"Me too." John admitted, sighing into his neck.

They stood still for a moment, before John pulled away, giving him a butterfly kiss.

"Come on." he said, allowing Sherlock to shed his coat and scarf, before pulling him upstairs again.

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><p><strong>There. Hope you enjoyed that! The next chapter will have some Lestrade and co in it. We'll also be seeing more of Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. Not sure about the next chapter. Reviews desperately needed ;p<strong>


	19. Chapter 19

**Right, thanks to everybody who reviewed. I always make my friends paranoid by grinning so much as I read them :p I'm afraid its a fairly short chapter, with the introduction of a little case. Enjoy!**

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><p>John was woken the next morning by Sherlock's heavy footfalls. He struggled into a sitting position, eyes landing on the detective.<p>

He was shimmying in a pair of trousers, hair ruffled and shirt looking a little creased.

"What's going on?" John asked.

He had been hoping for a slightly more romantic morning.

"Lestrade. Here in ten minutes." Sherlock announced, barely glancing at him as he ducked under the bed to retrieve something.

"Ten minutes? It's barely eight." John snapped, glancing at the bedside clock to back up his statement.

Sherlock shrugged, eye dancing.

"He's got a case." he said.

John watched him leap out of the room, feeling a little abandoned. He knew he would have to expect it. Cases always came first. But it was still a slap in face.

He retrieved some of his own clothes from the neat pile he'd made the night before, and quickly dressed, stumbling downstairs about seven minutes later.

Sherlock was already in his coat and scarf, tapping his fingers against the wall impatiently. John gazed at him for a moment, before hurrying past him into the kitchen. Hopefully there was time to make up a quick breakfast.

He'd finished one slice of toast, and was contemplating another when Sherlock trotted in, a frown firmly fixed on his face.

"He's late." he muttered to nobody in particular.

"Everybody is sometimes." John said, wondering whether there was any point in being cold.

Sherlock strode over, the frown dropping from his face as he pulled John to his feet, and cupped his face, fitting their lips together.

"I didn't say good morning." he whispered, somehow making the sentence incredibly sensual.

John steadied himself by grabbing onto Sherlock's arms, tilting his head as Sherlock's hands dropped to his neck.

It was only thirty seconds later that Sherlock pulled away, and bounced over to the living room. Lestrade appeared barely five seconds later, and John breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

"Alright you two?" he asked, glancing between them with the customary smile.

Sherlock cut John's answer short by slapping his hands.

"The case, Lestrade. If you please." he said briskly.

Lestrade gave a shrug at John, and sat down, Sherlock pacing before him while John added the plate to the growing pile of washing up, listening intently.

"A mother. Shot in front of her three adult sons yesterday evening. The killer was apparently wearing a mask, so they didn't see his face."

"He got away?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yeah. Dropped the gun and ran. The sons were busy trying to save the old woman, but she was dead. Very nasty."

"Where was she shot?" asked Sherlock.

"Head."

John leant against the wall, watching Sherlock purse his lips.

"How long was it before the ambulance was called?"

"Five minutes, max."

Sherlock nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as he surveyed the wall with distant eyes. Lestrade watched him closely, chewing his lower lip.

"I want to see the house." Sherlock said.

Lestrade didn't complain, standing without a word. Sherlock gave John a silent invitation, by simply glancing at him, eyebrow cocked.

That was all the invitation John needed, and he scampered after the inspector and detective. Soon they were in a cab (Sherlock refusing to get into the waiting police car) all pressed uncomfortably together. John was aware of every point of contact he had with Sherlock, but his partner seemed unaware of him.

"Any suspects?" Sherlock asked.

"One. Thomas Grey. Knew the victim. Some sort of lover it seems."

Sherlock relaxed against the seat, then sat up again, looking past John as if he weren't there to Lestrade.

"Finger prints? Fibres? Any forensic evidence?" Sherlock asked

"Nothing on the gun, and the black clothing the murderer was wearing hasn't been found."

A frown in response as Sherlock turned away, breath fogging up the window as he gazed out unseeingly. The rest of the journey was spent in silence, except for Sherlock asking about the victim.

She was a fifty two year old widower, her husband had died six years earlier, suicide. Her name was Katrina Rence, and her only family was her three sons, Matthew, David and Joshua. Thomas had no alibi for the time of death, and had admitted to being 'attached'.

They had finally arrived at the scene, Sherlock leaping out, and was halfway to the door by the time Lestrade and John got out. They hurried after him, Lestrade seeming on the brink of saying something, but then pursing his lips.

Sherlock waited briefly by the crime scene tape, ignoring Sally's stare. Lestrade frowned at Sally, cutting her comment off before she even spoke. She silently followed them up the stairs, and into the house. She, John and Lestrade stood in the doorway of the living room, the place Katrina had been shot, while Sherlock whirled around.

"How's his rib?" asked Lestrade.

"Fine. Healed perfectly, thank god." John answered, ignoring the look this sentence drew out of Sally.

"Good. The court case is complicated enough as it is." Lestrade answered, his eyes betraying the true reason for his first question.

John gave a half hearted smile. He wasn't feeling quite as elated as the day before. What if Sherlock decided there was no point having a boyfriend (though the term didn't seem quite right for their relationship) and just gave up?

It was highly likely too. That was what Mycroft had warned him of. It was what his secret fear had been for the past week. True, there had been one case. But they had simply walked into the yard, Sherlock had glanced at the files and announced who the murderer was and how to prove it was her, and then left. Hardly a challenge for the great mind.

Though he could barely think about it, he wondered what he would do if Sherlock 'dumped' him. Could he recover? Maybe, but the awkwardness would probably mean they had to split, and go their different ways. And... well, after knowing he felt for Sherlock for four weeks, to suddenly have the object of his affection cast it all away because there were better things to do wasn't appealing.

And he loved Sherlock.

Probably not the smartest move, but one could hardly help love, right?

Before the romantic side of their relationship came in, Sherlock had more power of him than anybody. But now, Sherlock could crush him beyond repair. Rip his heart to pieces. And the scariest thing was, he knew Sherlock would have no qualms about doing that.

He shuddered slightly, watching Sherlock's sharp bright eyes scan the room, not even flickering once in his direction. It only added to his disquietude.

He tried to convince himself he was being silly. That Sherlock was only acting normally. If they were still just friends, it would have been fine. Normal. Now however, it felt different. Like he was being ignored, and rejected. But just the quickest glance in his direction would set his heart at rest.

But Sherlock was completely unaware on his presence, and fear was gnawing at his heart.

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><p><strong>Right. I hope you liked. I'm sorry about the slow pace, but I hate it when things feel rushed. Next chapter will be along similar lines, and then we'll have some action (I think) I'd absolutely<em> love<em> to get to 200 reviews by chapter twenty, so get 'em coming! Suggestions and advice is amazing too.**


	20. Chapter 20

**I've decided to limit myself to the amount of time I'm going to spend writing fan fiction, as I have my own original stories to attend to. Hopefully I'll still average a couple of chapters a week, but we'll see...**

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><p>Sherlock was sure he was overlooking the obvious. The tiny, key piece of data that would have the puzzle clicking into place.<p>

To the police, it was obvious. To him, it was clear as mud.

The idiots had arrested Thomas Grey. Of course, he _could_ be he masked murderer. But it seemed unlikely. Why rush in and shoot her in front of her three sons when he could wait until the evening? Lestrade had refused to let him speak to Thomas, for the moment. He'd bring Lestrade round soon enough.

So for the time being, he had to content himself with looking round the house. There was no point of forced entry, so the murderer must have entered through an unlocked door or window.

Obviously it hadn't been a robbery, what kind of robber ran in, shot somebody and left? No, it as definitely a purposeful homicide. And they had only shot the mother, so that probably meant there was a motive. He hadn't heard of any other similar deaths, so it wasn't a serial killing.

After searching through the victim's bedroom, he crossed over to Lestrade, Anderson and John. Sally had disappeared at some point, and been replaced by an extremely annoyed looking forensic scientist.

"Are you sure there are no other suspects?" Sherlock demanded.

"Well, I don't think there are any others..." Lestrade answered.

Sherlock made a vague hand gesture which was meant to carry his annoyance, and pushed past them, rushing downstairs again. He heard voices, but ignored them. He needed to focus. Nothing else could cloud his judgement.

That meant not thinking about John too. Because if anything was going to stop him seeing the truth, it was his lover.

He had to concentrate hard to stop himself thinking about what they would be doing at the time. They'd probably still be in bed...

He frowned, pushing everything to do with John to the back of his mind. Easier said than done, but over the past few months, it had been something he'd had to do each time. And John would be pleased he was focusing on the case, and bringing a murderer to justice.

He was examining the sofa in the living room when Lestrade re-entered.

"Try not to contaminate anything." Anderson snarled from the doorway.

Sherlock glanced up at him to make some scathing comment, but froze, a frown crossing his face before he could stop it.

"Where's John?" he asked, trying not to show his worry.

"Oh, he had to go to work." Lestrade answered.

"Looks like your pet got bored." Anderson sneered.

Sherlock couldn't help the slight flinch the word 'pet' brought as he turned away. Moriarty had-

_John didn't have work on Thursdays..._

He stood up sharply, the sudden movement making him feel dizzy for a moment.

"Have you got it?" Lestrade asked hopefully.

He shook his head, trying to work out why John had left. He didn't have work. So why? It wasn't like him.

"Because he knows we've got the right man. Just doesn't like admitting it." Anderson said.

"Anderson." Lestrade barked.

Sherlock ran a spindly hand through his hair, bounding over to the window in the hopes of spotting John waiting for him. No.

He turned back to a confused Lestrade and Anderson, hurrying across the room.

"What's wrong?" asked Lestrade, watching him intently.

"When did John go?" he asked anxiously.

What if he'd done something? Something that made John angry?

He couldn't think of anything. He'd been focusing on the case after all. The only real thing that could distract him from John. Well except for experiments and any mention of Mycroft.

"Oh, about five minutes ago. Why?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. He wasn't going to answer that. Should he go after John? What if something had happened? Why hadn't he told him?

"Can't you stand the idea of your pet being out of sight?" Anderson jibbed.

Sherlock knew it was a bad idea before he even did it.

But he was genuinely worried. Was it bad news? Was it Moriarty? Yet again, why hadn't John said anything? Why hadn't he even explained? Said goodbye?

And hearing a word which he associated with Moriarty just seemed to much.

He slammed Anderson against the wall before he could even stop himself, aware his fingers were scrabbling for Anderson's neck.

He pulled away before either of the two policemen had a chance to react, taking a deep breath and jumping back to the window, trying to calm his fluttering heart and keep composed.

He had two options. Stay, and hope for the best. Or go looking for John. Maybe staying wasn't a good idea. He didn't often get so worked up.

Obviously having somebody to really care about was a bad idea. Bad for everybody.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade practically roared from behind him.

He turned just as the officer grabbed his arms, glaring up into his face. He did his best to keep it calm.

He didn't do a very good job however, as Lestrade did a slight double take. On the far side of the room, Anderson was sneering at him, and somehow Sally had caught wind of the attempt 'murder'.

"What was that?" Lestrade demanded, voice perhaps not as harsh as it should have been.

"It was him trying to kill me, that's what!" Anderson snapped.

Lestrade didn't release Sherlock's wrists from his iron grip, pursing his lips as he waited for an answer.

"Nothing." Sherlock sniffed, trying to gather the dregs of superiority he had remaining.

"Now, Sherlock." Lestrade said, pushing him back a pace to empathise his point.

Sherlock curled a lip, though inside his mind was tearing itself up trying to think. Just think about why John had left. It had to be obvious. But he couldn't seem to spot anything.

"Nothing... Just a moment," Sherlock said with a shrug. "I need to go."

He tried to pull away from Lestrade's grip, but the DI didn't let go.

"No, Sherlock. You just attacked one of my men. You know that no charges will be pressed, but for rules I'll keep you here until that brother of yours releases you."

Sherlock allowed him a small sniff of annoyance, pulling himself from Lestrade's grip.

"I need to find John." he said.

Lestrade frowned at him, not buying it one bit.

"Why? He's gone to work. No, you're staying here young man." he snapped.

Sherlock stalked across the room, fully intending to make his exit, but both Sally and Anderson blocked his route.

"No way freak." she muttered, calling over her shoulder for reinforcements.

He briefly considered making a desperate escape, but somehow he knew that wouldn't go down well with Lestrade

He sighed, resigning himself. He just hoped that the reason John left was a minor one.

Sherlock ignored the two officers which hurried into the room.

"I hope you know how tedious this is." he snapped at Lestrade.

The officer merely raised an eyebrow. Sherlock found himself a little hurt over the whole affair. Anderson had deserved much more, and yet here was Lestrade possibly killing his only friend and lover.

"You can talk to the sons if you want." Lestrade said, throwing the bait in front of his nose like a peace offering.

Sherlock glowered at him, half considering refusing the offer out of spite.

"Fine." he growled, fishing his phone out of his pocket and sending a single text.

_Come Back. - SH_

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><p><strong>Hmm, I seem to find angst incredibly easy to write. Anyways, review! and many thanks to all the people who contributed to my 200 goal, it meant a lot :p There's a chance the next chapter will be up on Thursday.<strong>


	21. Chapter 21

**Okay, I'm really, really sorry for the kinda long update time. I had a busy weekend etc. etc. More angst again this chapter, so brace yourselves :p**

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><p>John knew he shouldn't have left. Sherlock would see through his excuse for leaving in seconds.<p>

But he supposed that's what he wanted.

It was a childish plea for attention, but he wanted Sherlock to prove he cared by following him. By briefly abandoning the case to come looking for him. He needed to be reassured. Because being ignored, not something he generally minded, was bringing all his fears to the surface.

He walked slowly down the street, trying to give the case some thought, but no ideas came. It seemed, despite Sherlock's arguments on the contrary, that Thomas had done it. Who else had Katrina known who would want to kill her?

Though John couldn't actually think of a motive Thomas, he was sure Sherlock could. He was a consulting detective after all.

He glanced back, and felt disquietude twinge in his stomach as he saw Sherlock hadn't appeared.

Did it mean the detective didn't care for him? Had he not even noticed he was gone? Or had he, and wasn't bothered by the fact.

He tried to think of a scenario which would bring Sherlock from fault, and prove he did care, but he couldn't see one. He_ knew_ John didn't work on Thursdays. And if Sherlock cared, then he would put two and two together. That's what he did for a living.

The case hadn't seemed that all-consuming.

He took a deep breath and stopped, still within sight of the house. He could go back, and face extreme embarrassment, or stay away, and risk pushing himself into further despair.

If Sherlock didn't show up, he wasn't sure he could take it.

He was already cursing himself for getting so involved so quickly. But could he have stopped himself?

He hesitating for several long minutes, staring intently at the just visible crime scene tape, waiting for the familiar tall, majestic figure to appear.

But he didn't. Only the odd officer either entering or leaving the area.

So he was faced with the choice, and it was proving surprisingly difficult. Maybe Sherlock had a reason? Maybe...

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><p>John was thankful for not being sidetracked by Mrs. Hudson on the way up to the flat. He really didn't think he could cope with one of her 'domestic' speeches. After another five minutes of waiting on the street, he had hurried away.<p>

He didn't want to have to cope with this. Quite simply, he _couldn't_ cope with it.

His slightly more rational side didn't understand it. Sherlock had been so careful, so gentle over the past week. Professing his love twice, and just being almost romantic. His eyes had a light in them John had never seen, and he always appeared to relish any sign of love.

And yet, he'd allowed him to leave.

_He was on a case. He's always like that when he's on a case. Stop worrying._ He berated himself after making a cup of tea. He had to calm down. If he got this worked up every time Sherlock started a case, he'd be dead within six years.

So he spent the morning reading, sipping cups of tea, and putting the mantelpiece clock under a cushion so he couldn't see the hours slowly slipping past. Hours of being totally and completely ignored by Sherlock.

He'd checked his phone a dozen times. But there was nothing.

He'd strained his ears listening for the familiar, confidant footsteps on the stairs. But no. All morning he waited, but his lover didn't appear.

A little after twelve, Mrs. Hudson appeared to do a little tidying.

"Oh, John dear. I thought you were out." she said, wrinkling her nose as she stepped into the flat.

"Hmm, yes." John said absently, forcing himself to stay seated.

He had hoped Mrs. Hudson wouldn't come up. In his current mood, there was every chance he could get rather worked up.

"Sherlock not in?" she asked a few minutes later.

"No." John said tersely.

_Where is he?_

"On a case, is he?" she asked good naturedly, oblivious to John's annoyance.

"Yes." John replied on an equally abrupt manner.

He knew she was only trying to make conversation, but still...

"Anything good?" she asked, appearing in his line of sight.

He kept his eyes trained on his book, not wanting to have to meet her gaze.

"I don't know." he answered with a small sigh.

She glanced across to him with pursed lips.

John vaguely wondered when – _if_ he silently corrected himself – they finally revealed their relationship to her, she would be surprised.

He'd certainly denied it enough times, but she had never taken the hint. Chatting on about all sorts of 'incriminating' things, mainly in front of his girlfriends.

Still, she had been a help during the nastier times. Either with girlfriends, or with Sherlock. If... If Sherlock kicked him out completely, it wouldn't be just his friendship he would loose. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. They were all apart of his life.

_And now..._

If Sherlock pushed him away, or even pushed him out completely, would he ever find somebody committed enough to heal his severely broken heart?

"Are you planning on going out tonight?" Mrs. Hudson asked, lips still holding their slightly reproachful look.

_Why not?_ John thought. If Sherlock came back, they could go out together. And if he didn't...

"Yes, I think so." he said evenly.

"Would you mind if I borrowed your flat? I've got some friend's coming, and my place is a bit small..." she trailed off, pausing in her cleaning of the skull.

"No, of course not. Just don't let them in the fridge." John said absently.

"Thank you, dear. I'll let Sherlock know if he comes in." she said, bustling out the room.

John nodded vaguely. It would be nice to pop down to the pub, and get a glass or two of beer. Maybe one of his few friends would be able to make it down too.

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><p>Four painfully long hours later, he was sitting in his favourite pub, with a glass of cold beer, chatting to the barman, Edward.<p>

He'd decided that four o'clock was an okay time to leave, though that was partly because of being unable to stand the noiseless flat.

Mrs. Hudson had also informed him the first of her cronies was arriving at five, and he really, really hadn't want to be around when they arrived. A couple of them reminded him of vultures...

He'd known Edward for quite some time, and was pleased to have somebody with which he could talk to, without having to go into details about Sherlock. Edward read his blog, but that was it.

The hours slipped by, and he knew he was probably drinking a little more than he should. He'd switched from Edward, to somebody he knew from work, and then to a random stranger who had recognised him from his blog. That thing was certainly getting out of hand.

Nevertheless, it wasn't exactly getting late when a pretty young lady, probably a few years younger than himself, sat hesitantly beside him.

"Hey." he said, a little dully.

She smiled, and ordered herself a glass of wine.

"You don't mind me sitting here?" she asked after a while of silence.

"No, 'cause not." John said with a smile, taking a sip of his beer.

He was immensely relieved she didn't appear to recognise him from the blog. Talking about Sherlock once was bad enough.

"I don't think I've seen you here before." he said after a slightly awkward silence.

"No, I only moved to London a few weeks ago." she answered.

"Oh? What's it you do?"

And with that they fell into an easy conversation. She was a artist, but he didn't really gather much more than that. His mind wasn't focused on the conversation. He knew she was called Ruth.

He told her he was a doctor, and mentioned a flatmate, but he quickly discovered she was more of a talker than a listener.

So he listened as she rambled on, sipping his third, or maybe fourth beer, aware Ruth was getting closer, but not really minding. Her rather strong perfume seemed to disable all thoughts, which was good with him. He didn't want to think too much.

The pub got busier, but he had no inclination to leave, and it was obvious Ruth was staying as long as he was.

He checked his phone frequently, but no text arrived. Nothing. Zilch.

He hadn't seen hide or hair of Sherlock since the morning. And his 'partner' had made no attempt to contact him.

So it was about six thirty when he began to think about leaving.

"I should probably be getting back." he said, a little reluctantly to Ruth.

They had held several very interesting conversations. But it was arriving at an empty flat that he was dreading.

"Oh, don't go." she said, a light frown playing over her features, and an unobtrusive hand settling on his knee.

He resisted the urge to push it off and forced a smile.

"I really have to be going." he said, taking a final gulp of his beer, the alcohol rushing through the body like fire.

He definitely had a tot or so to much.

"At least give me your phone number." she asked, leaning forward until they were very close indeed.

He was about to pull away and announce that he wasn't interested. That he was in love with somebody already. And that he certainly wouldn't be dating anybody for a long time either way, when somebody yanked him to his feet.

He staggered, and spun to face the person who had probably bruised his shoulder with the force of their grip. He hadn't expected the accusation to die on his throat. And he certainly hadn't expected to find himself confronted with a devastated looking Sherlock.

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><p><strong>Righty! I hope you enjoyed that. Any opinions on what you think of the case would be good, and also why John didn't get the text Sherlock sent him. Next chapter, we shall find out what happened to stop Sherlock finding John quicker. Reviews = a quicker update time, plus make me very happy indeed.<strong>


	22. Chapter 22

**Okay thank you so much for all the amazing reviews! We're going back in time now, and I'm afraid that its another cliffhanger.**

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><p>Sherlock paced the living room, stonily glaring at Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson, all of whom were watching him with varying levels of nervousness and dislike. Two hours, he'd been <em>trapped<em> in this place. And so far, nothing, nothing at all, had happened.

Mycroft had briefly called to say he would pick Sherlock up himself, but there was no sign of him. And the trio of grieving brothers were busy at the moment, and wouldn't be free until the afternoon.

So Sherlock was trapped, seriously wondering if he could get away with murdering the three police officers without anybody noticing.

Probably.

And where was John? Why wasn't he responding to one of the many (eight, to be exact) texts he'd sent?

John never switched his phone off, and it was most unlike him not to respond. He even texted Mycroft, demanding him to hurry up, but the reply had been an automated one, and of no use.

"I want to leave." he told Lestrade firmly, pausing in his agitated pacing.

Lestrade, on his own might have been persuaded. But...

"You won't get away with attempted murder freak." Sally snarled, while Anderson nodded vigorously.

"If I had been attempting to to murder Anderson, I assure you he would be dead." Sherlock sneered in reply.

That comment didn't really help matters, and another two excruciating hours, filled with begging, bribing and threatening to no avail, passed by.

Then the brothers arrived, offering a small distraction from the gnawing worry in his chest.

He interviewed them together first, and there seemed no real suspicion. But after a word with Lestrade, he split them up, and their deviously clever plan unrolled before his feet.

It was rather simple, and he was sure that if he hadn't been thinking about John, he would have got it as soon as he set eyes upon the brothers.

All they'd done was shoot their old woman, and made up the masked intruder. But the tricky part was discovering the motive.

He gathered them back together, along with Lestrade.

"They did it." he said calmly with no preamble, watching them coldly.

"The- what?" spluttered Lestrade, while the brothers uttered protests.

"They made up the masked intruder, and shot their mother," Sherlock said, eyes narrowing down on the weakest member of the link, David. "Isn't that right, David?"

The young man took a gulp, and gave the tiniest of nods.

Sherlock expected to feel the victory rise up in him, but instead he just turned away, staring longingly, and a little wistfully, at the door. _Where is he?_

Lestrade clapped the brothers in cuffs, though Sherlock was aware of his gaze on the back of his neck. He didn't turn round though. He didn't want any questions.

"Do you know why they did it?" Lestrade asked ten minutes later, his tone forcing Sherlock to stop staring out the window.

"No." he said, his voice lifeless.

"Want to?" Lestrade asked, a frown crossing his features.

Sherlock looked back out the window, pulling out his phone and sending another text.

_Still can't leave. Respond - SH_

"Very well." he said.

He had to stop acting like a lovesick puppy. John surely had his reasons for leaving.

Lestrade went into a complicated speech about how the brothers learnt that their mother killed their father.

Sherlock nodded is way through the explanation, and when Lestrade finished, turned to him.

"Can I go?"

"Sherlock..."

He waited, forcing his features to stay calm.

"I can't have you messing around at a crime scene, whatever your reason. I'm sure your brother won't be long."

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><p>Three <em>fucking<em> hours. That's how long it had taken Mycroft to appear. It was drawing close upon five o'clock when Anthea arrived, coolly announcing that Mycroft had been detained, and that Sherlock was free to go.

Sherlock hadn't spoken to either Lestrade or the personal assistant on his way out of Scotland Yard (Lestrade had moved him to his office) instead flying from the building, and hailing the first cab, demanding them to get to Baker Street.

The next ten minutes passed almost as slowly as the last three, but finally the cab came to a painfully slow stop, and Sherlock thrust some money at the driver, and bolted out, storming up the stairs, and only topping on the landing when he heard voices in _his_ flat.

More than two voices. But he thought he caught Mrs. Hudson's laugh amongst the chatter, so deemed it safe to enter without picking up a bottle of spray.

He stomped through, allowing the door to crack against the wall as he stared into his living room, and found it held six old women.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

Mrs. Hudson waved cheerily from her seat.

"Sherlock dear. John said we could borrow the flat." she said, her nervous smile calming Sherlock's rapid breath slightly.

"Where is he?" he asked, the words coming out in a rush of fear and hope.

"He went out about an hour ago, dear. I don't know where. I thought it was to meet up with you on a case."

Sherlock growled under his breath, and bounded across to the kitchen, rummaging through the piles of dirty plates, the fridge (even glancing at the fingers concealed there) and the teabags. But he found no note to explain John's absence.

There was nothing under the skull either, and after a cold glare at the silent, slightly nervous looking friends of Mrs. Hudson, he dashed downstairs, racking his slightly paralysed brain.

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><p>It had taken a frighting amount of time to come upon the place John was. He had checked the park, and Angelo's, but had had no luck. So he'd forced himself to take calming breaths, and just <em>think.<em>

Where did John go on his own?

The answer was immediate, and obvious. The pub.

So he ran, as fast as he could, down to the pub nearest to Baker Street.

During his search, he'd sent another text, but there had been no reply. And it was only the fact that Mrs. Hudson had seen John with her own eyes which stopped him calling Mycroft.

_Love isn't good for you._ He noted silently as he roughly pushed the doors open, and let the warm air of the pub envelope him for a moment, before he scoured the room for John. _His John._

And then. He saw him.

Not in the position he wanted to see him in. Sitting next to a _woman_. And she was _touching _him.

Immediately anger flared up inside, anger, and a gut wrenching jealousy. He could hardly think for a moment as he watched her lean forward. He reeled, just staring with horror-stricken eyes.

Then he pelted forward before he knew he was, pulling John away with far more force than necessary.

Emotions were still boiling in him like molten lava, and he felt them heave all the more violently as his eyes settled on John's face.

He wanted to swoop down and kiss him. Claim him. Show that _woman_ who's he was. And that nobody was taking John from him, but fear kept him rooted to the spot, just staring at John.

John was gazing back at him, and in that instant, everything else was irrelevant. Everybody was useless. It was just them.

And then Sherlock's gaze fell upon the woman John had been with, and he stepped back, hurt rising up in his throat like bile, and his breath hitching.

"Sherlock." John whispered, unaware the whole pub was now watching them.

Sherlock knew his face was expressing far to much emotion. But his chest was constricting. John had left, to see this woman? John had abandoned him in favour of sitting and flirting with a woman?

He took several steps backwards to avoid John's arms.

"Why?" he asked in a broken whisper, a sob coming up along with it.

"Sherlock, please! Let me explain." John begged, grabbing his hand, the pressure brining up another restrained, choked sob.

"Explain what?" he snarled, pulling away and brushing the _non-existent_ tears away from his eyes.

John gaped, stepping back as if stung by the words, his lips forming Sherlock's name again.

But Sherlock knew he was on the point of breaking down. Knew that if he stayed a moment longer, he would do something incredibly rash.

So he turned tail and fled, ignoring John's strangled cry.

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><p><strong>There! Told you here was a cliffy :p I did originally think about having a massive fightargument, but it didn't fit, so wait until later. Now, I'm pretty busy again, but hopefully I'll get it up by the weekend. Reviews are nice :D**


	23. Chapter 23

**Right, sorry for the slight delay. Busy times. This is a very angsty chapter, so be ready,**

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><p>"Sherlock!" the word was ripped from John's throat before he could even think to stop himself.<p>

Not that he wanted to. He stood, paralysed in fear as he watched Sherlock turn and bolt from the pub, coat flapping around him like a cloak. He desperately wanted to get his legs to move, but they wouldn't.

Sherlock was gone.

Maybe forever.

He loved Sherlock, and he'd hurt him.

He stumbled back, before recovering him, and racing out of the totally silent pub, desperately looking up and down the street for any sign of Sherlock.

But there was none. The detective was gone. Gone...

__What have I done?__

He stumbled back, slumping against the pub's stone wall, ignoring the starts of pain in his back. He didn't know whether his vision was going black, or if it was just the increasing darkness. He didn't care. Sherlock was gone.

__How could I have been so stupid? __He should have known what it would do. Should have realised. But no. He had been an idiot, and Sherlock had suffered the consequences.

He knew that he could place blame on Sherlock. What had taken him so long? Why hadn't he called? But all he could think about at that moment was Sherlock's face.

He was feeling sick.

He became aware of somebody standing beside him, but knew it wasn't Sherlock. So he didn't look at them, staring out across the roads, desperately wishing to see Sherlock. His Sherlock...

"Who was that?" asked a female voice.

John didn't turn to face Ruth. In fact, he didn't want to look at her. He forced himself not to blame it on her. He couldn't. He had to remember only he was in fault.

"My boyfriend." he said tonelessly, hearing the defeat in his voice.

"Your... boyfriend?" Ruth asked, and he could hear the silent, __I didn't know you were gay.__

"Yes." he said, answering both questions.

"Oh."

There was a long silence, and John just wished she would go away.

He couldn't think. Not past __Oh my god, I'm so sorry Sherlock.__ He couldn't feel anything. He was just numb. Numb with fear.

What would he do if he never saw Sherlock again?

What would he do if he did see Sherlock, but only to get rejected?

Would Sherlock be able to forgive him? Would he think he was unfaithful?

He couldn't get the horrible, nauseous thoughts from his head.

Because Sherlock was gone.

How much must he have hurt him, to make him turn and __run.__ Sherlock never ran away. Not unless he was really, really upset.

__What the hell was I doing? __he wondered, clenching his fists so the nails dug into his palms. He didn't care that the pain stung, or that he was probably drawing blood. Nothing mattered. He deserved to hurt. He was hurting, in his heart.

If he hadn't left Sherlock at the crime scene, none of this would have happened. He would be curled up on the sofa with the man he loved more than anything, watching TV. He wouldn't be standing on the street, ready to turn up his stomach, a huge gaping wound in his heart.

He heard Ruth move away, no offer of sympathy of apology. He didn't want them anyway. He wanted nothing to do with anybody, except Sherlock.

He scanned the street again in the hopes of spotting the lanky figure, but no. He wasn't there.

He'd never felt this desperate. Not even in Afghanistan.

He'd never lost hope. Until now.

He pushed away from the wall, and stumbled down the street, just managing to force his legs to keep him upright. Maybe... Just maybe Sherlock had returned to Baker Street.

The journey seemed to stretch on who hours. But finally he was stumbling hurriedly up the staircase, a huge knot forming in his stomach. He pushed the door open to reveal the empty room.

He slumped against the door frame, biting back all the feelings which wanted to rush loose.

He managed to walk across to the sofa, and curl down round one of the cushions, too dark to tell which one. It smelt slightly of Sherlock, and he buried his face in it breathing deeply, and trying to fall asleep, which would at least stop the guilt roaring in his ears.

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><p>He awoke to find another person in the room.<p>

Hope leapt in his heart, but looking up, he saw Mycroft seated in a chair, watching him with steady eyes.

He struggled into a sitting position, ignoring his stiff neck and back from lying curled on the sofa, and stared back at the Holmes brother.

So, now he was going to suffer the most painful death imaginable.

At that moment, it sounded quite appealing.

"Hello." Mycroft said easily.

John grunted, bringing his knees to to his chin and resting it there. The aching pain in his stomach was back.

"And how are you?" asked Mycroft.

"Fine." he snapped.

Mycroft obviously knew what had happened. But he was being fairly amiable.

There was a long silence.

"Do you know where Sh-"

"No, but you needn't worry."

Another silence.

"Why are you here?" John asked finally.

He wasn't sure if he had believed Mycroft's threat. Probably. But it would have been carried out by now if he had been serious.

"I've come to check on you."

John frowned.

"I'm _fine_."

Mycroft scoffed slightly, twirling his umbrella.

"Will you forgive him?"

John didn't even bother to find out how Mycroft knew the exact facts of their argument.

"Yes. I alw... I just wish he could have at least... responded." he said quietly, biting his lips.

Mycroft continued to stare unnervingly at him, before leaning back in his chair again.

"He did."

John frowned, though the beginnings of foreboding were creeping up inside him. What had Mycroft done. __Again.__

"Did what?"

"He didn't ignore you. Quite the opposite in fact. Eleven texts over the course of that day." Mycroft said, with almost unreasonable composure.

"Wha..." John instinctively reached for his phone.

He was __sure __Sherlock hadn't sent him anything. He hadn't gotten any texts full stop.

"Don't bother. I cut them off." Mycroft said.

"You-" John repeated, more violent natured emotions boiling up in him.

Because of his _brother_ Sherlock was out there somewhere, upset and alone. Because of _Mycroft_ he had spent the night silently fearing, grieving and berating himself.

"Indeed."

John curled his fists into balls.

"It was a simple matter of detaining Sherlock at the police station for the day, and keeping you from sending or receiving texts." he said, accompanied with a twirl of his umbrella.

John resisted the strong urge to punch the bastard of a brother in the face.

"Are you really that sick and resentful?" John growled.

Mycroft's look didn't flicker.

"No. I believe it was for the best."

John gaped at him, the loss crashing down on him.

"Why can't you just leave him alone? He doesn't need you controlling his life. And I certainly don't want you trying to derail _us_ every other moment." John said with forced calm.

His voice trembled slightly though.

"I have to be sure how committed both of you are."

John opened his mouth, then shut it firmly, curling back onto the sofa and ignoring Mycroft. He heard the man rise, and hesitate.

"It's for the best." he repeated coolly, before striding out the room.

John lay still, breathing in a scent which was purely Sherlock.

Mycroft had probably driven Sherlock away for good. Forever.

Even if he did come back, there was by no means the guarantee that his fragile emotions would be ready to commit to something as dangerous as a relationship ever again.

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><p><strong>:D So, next chapter all will be resolved. I've got twothree chapters planned, so I reckon we're almost done. On the up side, I have started a new Sherlock/John fic, so keep your eyes open for it in the near future Reviews are indescribably awesome/epic/brilliant!**


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock didn't stop running until he knew he was safe. That was when his body gave out, and he staggered against a wall, letting himself slide down the bricks, bringing his shaking hands up to his head.

His whole body was quivering, and he could hear dry sobs slipping through his lips, but paid no heed. He didn't care that everybody who passed by stared at him. He ignored the gentle queries if he was alright.

He just sat still, fighting his uncontrollable tears of loss.

__John...__

He didn't try to stop the grief pouring out of him after that. He just let himself run free. Those carefully controlled emotions rolling out of him with the tears.

He'd been sheltered from emotions all his life. And suddenly they were raining down on him, battering his broken heart all the more.

He didn't care that he was being weak.

If anybody who knew him were to see him at that moment, they would think he was somebody else. He had never shown raw and pure emotion. Not even when it was bursting to be free.

It was how he stopped himself from getting hurt.

He crouched against the wall, letting all the feelings leave him until he felt dry and empty.

His heart was throbbing, and his stomach twisted.

And once he had cleared himself, he tried to just think.

_Why?_

Why hadn't John responded to his texts? Had it been because he had met that woman in secret? If not, why had he been with her? Surely he would have noticed if John were having an affair right under his nose.

The John he knew wouldn't do that to him. John knew him better than anybody. John knew he had emotions. Knew that they were delicate.

He wouldn't do 'things' with somebody else he behind his back.

Would he?

Sherlock let a small groan part through his lips, the noise sounding strange compared to his choked breath.

Now what?

He couldn't go back home. Not yet.

But home would always been wherever John was.

He needed time to think. Time to recover.

It could takes days, or hours. He didn't know.

But until he had knitted his shattered feelings again, he couldn't see John again.

He couldn't risk being broken again so soon after being crushed.

Sherlock stood on wobbly legs, and thought for a moment. Where could he go? He had no money, and very few friends. The question was, who could he trust?

There was really one viable option.

Lestrade.

Thirty minutes later, he was ringing at the officers door, praying that he was in.

A good two minutes later, the door opened to reveal a slightly harassed looking Lestrade. He did a double take as his eyes wandered over Sherlock's tear stained face.

"Sherlock...?" he said, mouth dropping open slightly.

"May I come in?"

Lestrade silently nodded, and stepped aside. Sherlock glanced round the small quarters the officer inhabited. He'd never been to Lestrade's home.

"Er, are you alright?" Lestrade asked, steering him into a claustrophobic living room.

"Yes. Perfectly." Sherlock replied, tones a little too sharp.

Lestrade nodded uneasily, sitting down in a chair, and gesturing at the sofa.

"So, why are you here?" he asked cautiously.

"I hope you don't mind if I stay for a few days?" Sherlock responded, avoiding the question.

Lestrade nodded, before tipping his head and surveying Sherlock, worry etched across his features.

"You haven't had another row with John have you?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock replied crisply. "I merely need to be away from him."

Lestrade nodded.

"Well, you're fine to stay here, if you don't mind the sofa."

Sherlock nodded, and immediately curled down.

"Do you want something to e-"

"No."

With a cautious glance at him, Lestrade left the room.

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><p>The next day passed, and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to move. Lestrade had thankfully avoided probing the matter, simply saying goodbye and leaving for work.<p>

As Sherlock desperately tried to keep John out of his mind, he mused that it was the second time Lestrade had been of great value during emotional times. Twice he had gone to where Lestrade would be to deal with a stressful problem.

That evening, Lestrade returned, slightly surprised to find Sherlock still on his sofa, but making no comment.

The next morning passed in a similar way to the previous one, Sherlock working on some case files Lestrade had brought back. He did anything to stop himself from thinking about John.

As evening drew near, he knew he had to go.

Something told him he did.

It had been almost two days, and he didn't want to worry John.

At least, he hoped John was worried about him. He could be having a glorious time with that woman. The thought sent shivers down Sherlock's back.

So he ate a slightly rotten apple from Lestrade's fruit bowl, wrote out a note explaining his disappearance (he felt Lestrade had earned the right to know he had left of his own free will) and headed out onto the street with a twenty pound note he had found under the apple.

Minutes later he was in a taxi, foreboding creeping up his throat, making him feel sick.

He had been kidding himself for the past two days. He loved John more than anything, and the idea that he could be about to loose him forever was unbearable.

Finally the taxi stopped outside the familiar house, and he absently handed over the note, ignoring the offered change, instead slowly getting out, and clenching his hands to stop them shaking.

He was pushing the door open before he even had time to catch his breath, holding it as he entered the silent flat.

He mounted the stairs with trembling steps, chewing his lips to shreds as he hesitated by the flat's door. There was not a sound from inside, and he almost hoped John was out.

But not really. He _had_ to see him.

So with a shaky, emotional breath he pushed the door open.

John was already standing by the sofa. Obviously he had just risen. They stared at each other, John eyes roaming over his face as if he couldn't get enough.

And Sherlock knew the look in his eyes.

Before he knew it, he had stepped across the room and pulled John into a suffocatingly tight hug. He could feel John's arms wind round his chest, pulling him closer as if he was trying to mould their bodies together.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry." John mumbled into his shoulder.

Sherlock knew that whatever had happened had been a misunderstanding. The weight which had been crushing his heart for two days lifted.

"I love you." he whispered, keeping John pressed against him.

He didn't want to ever let go.

"I love you too. So much." John's reply came.

Whatever problems there were, could be resolved. Whatever difficulties, could be overcome. As long as he could hear those words for the rest of his life, he would always forgive John.

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><p><strong>My new story, <em>Ironic Fate<em>, is now up! I'd appreciate it if you went and checked it out.**

**Right, this is the second to last chapter, so we're pretty much done. Reviews are nice :p I am going to be replying to all the people who reviewed, though it might take some time.**


	25. Chapter 25

**This final chapter (sob-sniff) is dedicated to _all_ the people who reviewed. I would almost certainly not have completed this without your support and kindness. But I'd like to give a special mention to:**

**_ Artemis Fortune, bookgirl 121, power0girl, Riddikulus-Grin, & virus-of-blossoms._ I put a stupid amount of time into that list, and I'm mortally afraid of missing somebody who reviewed a huge amount of chapters. I give you a thousand apologies if I did. Enjoy the final chapter.**

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><p>John held Sherlock, held him tightly. He could feel the thudding heart, the trembling breath, the shaking body. And it only made him cling the more desperately.<p>

Because Sherlock was finally back. And he had forgiven him. And nothing past that mattered.

"I love you." he repeated, pressing a light kiss to Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock's breath stuttered, but neither of them moved.

It was John that eventually pulled away with a regretful sigh. He stared into those gorgeous eyes, resisting the urge to kiss all the uncertainty in their depths away. Sherlock needed space, at least until this whole thing was sorted out.

Sherlock gazed back at him, lips slightly parted as his eyes skittered over John's face, the very slightest frown creasing his smooth forehead.

John allowed himself the small pleasure of brushing a strand of curly black hair behind Sherlock's ear, swallowing hard.

"I'm sorry." he said softly.

Sherlock gave the very, very faintest nod, and gently captured his lips. Their arms wound round each other again, but neither took the kiss past a tender moving of the lips.

It was fragile and delicate. But full of feelings, fears and hopes. It was meaningful, soft and loving. John was just relieved that Sherlock has accepted his apologies, however inadequate.

He pulled away as he felt Sherlock's movements grow bolder. However much he just wanted to pour himself into the kiss, it wouldn't solve any problems. He stood on tiptoe to kiss the sculpted nose of the detective, and then gently, almost afraid of breaking him, he pushed him onto the sofa, and joined him, relishing the contact of their thighs pressing together.

"We need to talk, Sherlock." he said, lacing the other man's hand with his.

Sherlock seemed to cower slightly, but nodded, large grey eyes steadily keeping eye-contact.

"Why, John?" he asked quietly, his voice sounding flimsy compared to the overwhelming silence of before.

John pressed his hand. Even though he knew that behind it all, Mycroft had been meddling, he still couldn't help feel guilty. The pain was reflected in Sherlock's eyes. Pain caused by his actions.

"I was angry... I was afraid, Sherlock. I was afraid I was one of your experiments. A plaything, which you would discard after a few days. And, when you ignored me when the case arrived, it brought all that up to the surface..."

Sherlock frowned, eyes fluttering in confusion.

"But... Once you left, I sent you-"

"I know! But I didn't get them..." he said.

Sherlock's eyes lit up angrily, and his grip on John's hand tightened.

"Mycroft."

"Indeed. He spouted some rot about commitment. But he was the one that got you detained at the yard, and stopped me getting any texts."

"But, he didn't detain me. I nearly strangled Anderson, and they kept me in." Sherlock said.

John smirked slightly.

"Well, I suppose that's not the point. He would have had a backup plan."

There was a pause.

"I always said he was an insufferable bastard." Sherlock said, the ghost of a smile flitting over his features.

John smiled back, then it faded, and he hesitated.

"Will you forgive me?" he asked.

He hoped he knew what the answer was, but there was that one percent chance he was wrong.

"Of course. I'll always forgive you. I hope you offer the same feeling." Sherlock replied.

"Yes." John said simply, bringing his lips back to Sherlock's in a firm, desperate kiss.

* * *

><p>The moment he woke up, John knew that everything was right. The warmth pressed against his side. The hair tickling his cheek. And he couldn't stop the drowsy smile springing to his lips.<p>

Sherlock was back.

And he was never letting him go again.

He pulled the sleeping detective closer to him, risking breaking the spell to open his eyes and look into a face he adored and admired.

He didn't think it was possible to love somebody as much as he loved Sherlock. Every point of contact made his skin tingle. Every sleepy breath from his sleeping companion made his heart clench.

He felt honoured to be the only one loved and trusted on this level by the great man. By the genius.

He half wanted Sherlock to wake. But on the other hand he saw him sleep so rarely, it was something of a treat to see that face, so young without the timeless eyes. Eyes which had seen death, violence and abuse on a level nobody should. Eyes which had that blinding, painful intelligence. The grey orbs were so bright. So alive. They mirrored Sherlock's personality. They truly were his window's to the soul.

He shifted carefully, but the slight movement had Sherlock stirring slightly, the smallest of smiles twitching his pale lips. Lips that just begged to be kissed.

John gently brushed his against them, and grey eyes opened.

"I'm glad you're back." Sherlock said simply, sighing in content.

John just pulled him closer, silently promising never to leave. Never to make him hurt again. Never to be without him.

Because he couldn't go on without that tall figure by his side. His heart.

He managed to squirm from Sherlock's lax grip. However much he wanted to stay, he felt that getting on with the day would be a more profitable use of his time. Along with the fact it was almost eight thirty.

Sherlock groaned at the loss, but he was only still half wake, and after a few moments, curled down on himself, nestling his curly topped head against the pillow.

John quickly showered and dressed, trying to be as quiet as he could. Then he hurried downstairs. The flat was rather messy. In his two days of waiting, he hadn't gotten much done. Just sitting, waiting, hoping. However sad it was, he had learnt not to _ever_ trust Mycroft, and was afraid Sherlock would never come back.

Not that sitting waiting would help. But it had made him feel better at the time.

So he cleaned up the kindly donated meals, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, and made breakfast.

It was fifteen or so minutes later that there was a knock on the door, and he opened it to reveal Greg Lestrade.

"Oh. Greg, hi." he said, ushering the officer in.

"Morning John. I'm sorry for coming round so early." Lestrade said, and he two of them hurried into the living room.

Once he had Lestrade comfortably seated with a biscuit, he made a batch of tea, finally sitting down opposite the detective.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

Lestrade dunked his slightly stale biscuit, managing to avoid it crumbling into his tea.

"I came about Sherlock. He turned up a few days ago, and just sat on the sofa, and now he's gone."

Ah, so that was where Sherlock had gone.

"He's fine now. Upstairs." he said, realising an instant too late what the implications for Sherlock being upstairs were.

Lestrade didn't notice however, either not aware of the layout of their accommodation, or just finding it too early to make deductions.

"Good. I was worried about him. I wanted to tell you, but he absolutely insisted I didn't call you." Lestrade said.

John nodded, a little tendril of guilt coiling round his heart again.

"Would I be going too far if I asked what he was sulking about?" Lestrade asked cautiously, curiosity oozing from his tone.

John hesitated. But now, he knew exactly what had to be done.

He wasn't going to hide his love of Sherlock like a dirty secret.

"It was a misunderstanding, over a woman." he said.

Lestrade however took quite the wrong end of the stick.

"Oh... I'm sure he'll get used to her."

John hesitated, but his courage failed him. He would tell Lestrade, just as soon as Sherlock was there to announce the happy news too.

He just gave a non committal shrug and a slight smirk.

They talked aimlessly about football for twenty minutes, before Sherlock came clattering into the room, not the least surprised to see Lestrade, merely greeting him with a curt nod, and glancing uneasily at John, questions shining from his eyes.

John gave him a small nod, and held out his hand. Lestrade looked between them, a frown on his kind features.

Sherlock was across the room in seconds, fingers twinging themselves around John's. Lestrade gave a small gasp, and almost spilt his tea all over the carpet.

"Oh." he said, eyes flitting between them.

John smiled nervously at him, then glanced at Sherlock. He'd never seen the detective look so happy, and downright smug.

"Oh. Congratulations." he said, the shock receding into a broad smile.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, bounding across the room and into the kitchen in a flash.

"How long then?" Lestrade asked.

"Over a week." John said, the time seeming ridiculously small compared to what had happened in that short time.

Lestrade nodded, then hesitated.

"I'm glad. He deserves somebody." he said.

John smiled, feeling blindingly happy at that moment.

Sherlock was back in the room, breaking the silence with his loud munching on a piece of toast.

"So, I assume you have a case, Lestrade." he said.

Obviously he had never heard of social calls.

"Er, yeah. If you want it?"

"Of course, have I ever turned down one of your cases?"

Lestrade shrugged, and downing the rest of the crumby tea, he stood, picking up his jacket.

"Now?"

"Yes please." Sherlock replied, shrugging his coat on.

They all headed to the door, Lestrade leading the way.

At the bottom, Sherlock paused, then took John's hand in his, firmly squeezing it as he laced their fingers.

John couldn't the stop his lips quriking as they stepped out onto the street, Sherlock's hand in his. As long as he could feel the warm, firm, comforting pressure for the rest of his life, he would be happy. Happier than he ever thought possible.

* * *

><p><strong>Right. I hope you enjoyed this story. And a thousand (million) thanks to everybody who reviewed, or just had the patience to read. Some final reviews would be lovely. And again, if you could check out my new fic, I would be grateful.<strong>

**Have a wonderful life.**


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